


law of the jungle

by RaeOfFrickingSunshine



Series: around the world [2]
Category: Outer Banks (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Family Feels, I apologise, M/M, this is pure self indulgence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:40:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 64,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25116289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaeOfFrickingSunshine/pseuds/RaeOfFrickingSunshine
Summary: After four years, one month and two weeks, it's time to go home.what happened next (around the world sequel)
Relationships: JJ & Kiara (Outer Banks), JJ/Kiara (Outer Banks)
Series: around the world [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1819243
Comments: 280
Kudos: 451





	1. prologue.

There is one indisputable fact about life and it is that eventually, all good things must come to an end.

Kiara Carrera and JJ Maybank have been globetrotting for approximately four years and a month. There are sunglasses over his eyes (some Rayban knock offs purchased on a beach in Rio) and the sun is hot and high in the sky. Their sun loungers are perfectly located on the beach so he can watch his girlfriend emerge from the sea, saltwater running down her skin in rivulets. This is his third favourite version of Kiara – throwing herself into her chair, her black hair a tangled mane around her shoulders that he knows is going to dry into tight sea induced ringlets.

“Stop staring, nerd,” she chastises, as though he’s supposed to look somewhere else when his actual girlfriend is stretching out merely two feet away, all golden brown limbs and exposed skin in a printed turquoise bikini.

He drags his eyes over her once more anyway, lets them linger. Kiara sighs through her nose, but then she puts one hand behind her head and strikes a pose.

He’d suggested Yucatan a year ago, during their six-month stint in New Zealand which saw them working the entire summer on a remote eco-farm community. There’s been the four months with the orangutans in Sumatra; the pangolin rescue centre in Namibia, which also took in cheetah cubs and other wounded or endangered animals. The yoga retreat in Guatemala, which was the backdrop for the night Kiara woke him up by throwing up all over his bare chest. There was only one compost toilet in the whole compound, located at the top of the hill. Things took place on their cabin’s balcony which he’s sworn to secrecy about; especially when he too was struck down with food poisoning.

They’ve been huddled under mosquito nets in Kenya; he’s found Kiara pressed halfway into a freezer in southern Iran. They’ve been mugged countless times, now – once with a machete, their mugger’s expression apologetic. They call Pope each time – JJ is accustomed to slipping some notes of the local currency somewhere hidden upon his person so they can at least travel to the local embassy and call Pope once again.

There was the crazy dance party in a village in Ghana, with music and limbs everywhere. There’d been a crowd of people around a man sat on a chair and it was only after two hours when the man hadn’t moved that Kiara had hissed that he was embalmed and they realised they were actually at a funeral. (JJ thinks that’s how he’d like his to go – sitting up, joint in one hand, bass rattling his bones).

Kiara’s backpack strap snapped in Mexico and she cried. JJ’s heart twisted as he pulled her in, took the bag off her shoulder. He went out later and found needle and thread and sewed it back together. It was not not pretty, but it was functional, and Kiara gasped and pushed at his shoulder when she saw the repair; ran her fingers over the messy stitching.

Pope joins them to climb Machu Picchu and him and Kiara nerd out the entire way up. Pope complained about blisters and his back aching from the climb. Kiara delighted in showing him her feet – more callus than skin. JJ demonstrated how he can now walk barefoot over sharp flinty stones. Pope disputed that that can be classified as a superpower.

It’s when they try proper Mexican food. It’s when Kiara’s head tilts back to look at some monument, her hands on her hips, her brow scrunched. The scrunchie or the hair band he always has around his wrist; the feature so permanent, he has a white band of skin where it’s blocked the sun.

Mr and Mrs Carrera join them in the Galapagos Islands. It’s a whole ten days of just the four of them. JJ longs for John B’s easy charm and diffusion – even Pope’s social awkwardness, to shift the attention off him. Anna is sharp eyed and sharper tongued. Mike reached to cuff him around the ear once, friendlily, and JJ flinched reactively, before his brain engaged. Mike stared at him for a long while, dropped his hand slowly. Kiara was there in an instant, her shoulder familiar against his arm. JJ excused himself. Took deep breaths outside until his heart stopped beating in his ribcage like a hummingbird.

Julia, his therapist, has been saying that he needs to accept that he is lovable. Sometimes, it’s easy to believe. When it’s his eye Kiara’s trying to snag in a crowd. The little, idle touches; a hand to his lower back; her stomach to his shoulder as she reaches over him. Pressing an absent-minded kiss to his temple or his hair. The fact it’s been four years and a month and they’re still a duo, a pair, still fucking up and making mistakes and constantly sniping.

Other times it’s hard to believe. Like when she danced around the forest during a downpour, clothes soaked and plastered to her skin. When he became aware that it was not just his eyes focussed on her. That the PhD student with a specialism in slow loris conservation drew her into conversations about the environment for hours, her eyes sparking and hands gesturing in the way she does when the topic is really close to her heart.

It’s the fact that he’d had to take himself away – that the only thing that stopped his mind humming, chanting, snarling at itself – was to smash his fist into a tree. The bark broke the knuckles on the third hit and he wanted to yell or scream but didn’t want to attract any attention, so had just gone back to their cabin, carefully checked their bed for snakes (he wished that was a joke) and then laid down in some anger induced rage until Kiara had come looking a whole hour and forty minutes later.

She’d curved a hand over his shoulder and pushed a finger into the furrow of his brow, smirking a little. Called him _Mr Grumpy Gils_ in a mocking tone. Eventually, when the stony silence hadn’t relented, she shrugged, jumped down. “Come find me when you’ve stopped being an ass.”

Which was even more infuriating, because JJ had done enough therapy by then to know that her reaction was a valid boundary setting response, and his stonewalling was not. But knowing that fact is not the same as feeling that it’s true – the anger was tumultuous, shifting in his stomach and his head. Right up until he went to check the time on his phone and the lock screen was some stupid selfie they’d taken, Kiara’s face half obscured by hair, the angle mockingly high.

It was only then that he sighed and pulled on his boots (after shaking them out hesitantly because, snakes) and went to find her. Pressed a hand to her shoulder and stole some rice off her plate, which she pushed towards him.

But of course Kiara noticed, because she’s perceptive as hell. She waited until she had his wrists in one hand, pressed above his head; they were both shirtless and he must have been staring at her with what must be something extremely unholy in his eyes.

“You’re jealous,” she surmised, “of Ed.”

JJ touched a tongue to his bottom lip, tried to keep panic off his face. Because Kiara hates being thought of as property, or a possession, and he definitely doesn’t consider her to be _his_. It’s more like he’s hers and she can do with that what she wishes.

“Not jealous,” he protested, and she quirked one eyebrow up disbelievingly. JJ wriggled his hips to try and get her mind back to where he wanted it. Kiara kept staring severely. “I mean, he’s great, and he has a PhD and you can talk about saving the world together-”

“JJ,” she said, and it was tired, capped. She released his wrists and threw her leg off him; crossed her legs instead. JJ had been tempted to cup her hip and drag her back, but she hadn’t looked remotely amused. “Do you think I’m that shallow?” Her voice had been small, wounded. JJ’s heart had twisted at it.

“Fuck, no, Kie-”

“Well then, why?”

He sat up, reached out for her. His hand had landed on her knee and she stared at it. “I want to be him – I want to be able to talk about the science and shit,” his breath had gusted with the confession, words running together. There’s a reason he was never top of the class, a reason why he was never even middle. Words escape him, twist in his head. “You deserve more – you deserve a PhD and science and shit-”

She had thrown her leg over him then, bracketed her arms either side of his head. Her glare was ferocious. “You don’t get to tell me what I want. I do that. Get that through your skull.”

Which – it’s a nice sentiment. And he said sure because she was straddling his hips and it meant he could put his hands on her waist and then up her shirt.

In his head, Yucatan was the end point. It was the running joke throughout their senior year. He thinks Kiara knows that too, because they’ve gone for a super fancy Airbnb overlooking the beach, like they’re some Kooks on vacation. It has a wooden terrace upstairs with a balcony and a hammock that clearly isn’t designed for two, but fits them both anyway. 

It takes two days before they get an itch in their feet and set off the explore the local area. They go on a turtle nesting walk at night and sit twenty feet away. JJ tries not to laugh as Kiara watches in reverie. It takes all of fifteen minutes for him to get bored and she kicks at him for fidgeting before flinging her legs over his and pinning him still.

He wonders if Kiara feels the same as him. There’s something infringing on their interactions. There’s a weight in the air of things unspoken. She gets up and gets him another beer without protest. Doesn’t even comment when he uncaps it with his teeth.

It’s the fourth night and he can’t bear it anymore. Says, “so, home?”

They’ve been on the water all day, on paddleboards and then in kayaks. His arms ache because they’d got a double and Kiara had insisted on sitting at the back. JJ doubts she did any work at all. The ends of her hair are lighter, bleached by the sun. The strands have formed into tight ringlets due to the salt water. She has on one of his sweaters (or maybe it’s one of Pope’s, from way back when), the sleeves pushed up to her elbows.

Her nose scrunches in the way it does when she’s thinking. Her eyes close briefly, shoulders slumping into the hammock. She runs a thumb over the lip of the bottle and sighs. “Maybe it’s time.”

She looks anxious, or hesitant. JJ runs a hand over her ankle briefly, the touch light. “We can always leave again,” he points out.

Four years ago, he never thought it would end like this. Four years ago, he hadn’t looked further than the next four hours, never mind years. At times, this ending seems inevitable. The conclusion wrapped up in a nice neat package.

“Yeah,” she agrees, and closes her eyes and moves her foot ever so slightly towards him. He swipes his thumb over her ankle, watches as she sighs, tension leaking from her shoulders.

“It’ll be fine. Be nice to have reliable plumbing and know more than three people.”

“Yeah,” Kiara smiles at him, “it’ll be good.”


	2. one.

*

JJ once heard that it takes on average sixty-six days before something becomes a habit.

The first month of being home is filled with catching up with old friends, surfing down on Rixon’s, and fixing the niggles that have arisen whilst the Chateau has sat empty. It’s summer and JJ half expected John B to come home once he realised JJ and Kiara were back, but there was no such luck. Pope rang a week ago and said he was coming back in ten days. He’d been hesitant for a long moment before rushing _andI’mbringingmyboyfriend_ in one blur. It had taken JJ a second to decipher and then he realised he’d left a long pause and scrambled with _oh cool, is he as hot as you are?_ which earnt him a slap on the arm and an eye roll from Kiara who had correctly guessed the conversation.

One Tuesday Kiara is putting in a shift at the Wreck, so JJ takes his bike and drives into the Cut. Wanders into the Heyward’s store to check on his technical and potentially still legal guardian and somehow gets roped into helping with deliveries. Jumps from dock to boat with bags full of whatever the upper echelons of society decided they wanted delivered to their jetties.

“You look alright, kid,” Heyward appraised him shortly.

“Always do, chief,” he deflects, but there’s a spark of something warm in his chest that he recognises as the almost ever persistent need to be liked, to be wanted. Heyward’s boat sputters when the ignition sparks to life, and JJ’s got the engine uncovered and is ordering Heyward to find an adjustable wrench before the man can protest.

Then of course someone overhears or oversees, because this is the Cut, so JJ has his elbows in someone else’s engine next. Dives into the shallows of the docks to pull free a particularly troublesome length of seaweed from a propeller.

Heyward has been on his delivery, his boat running smoother but not problem free.

“Something with the fuel pump,” JJ assesses, and he kicks the boat with the toe of his boot. He has fresh Bluefish on ice in a cooler by his feet, because Fisherman Philip is short on cash but not on goods or gratitude. “Pope would buy you a whole new boat, if you asked nicely. Maybe even if you didn’t.”

Heyward says, “you’ve turned out alright, kid,” and ruffles his hair, despite the fact there’s grease and some water from the bottom of the fisherman’s boat caught in the locks. JJ knows there is because he smells sea and fish when he twists away from Heyward and rams his cap back onto his head. “Come see Yvonne. She worries.”

“Ain’t no need to worry about me, Mr Heyward. I’m all lucked out. Super smart girlfriend. Roof over my head. Still the best surfer on the entire island. Culture leaking out my pores.”

Heyward snorts at this, looks hard at him. “Fine. Come see Yvonne because she misses you.”

JJ tilts his chin, shrugs a shoulder. There’s that spark in his chest again. He rubs his chin against his shoulder, backs away a step. “Whatever you say, bro.”

Heyward quirks an eyebrow at the colloquialism but lets it slide.

Of course, he goes and checks on his dad afterwards, because sometimes he feels so happy and content that he has to do something to ground himself.

His dad says, “well, look what the cat dragged in,” when JJ shimmies through the door, because his dad has put a chair up against it for reasons JJ doesn’t really want to delve into. It’s half four and so JJ’s kind of surprised his dad is even coherent. There’s a half empty bottle of beer next to him, but his eyes are sharp and focussed.

It’s a situation JJ is wholly unprepared for, so he kind of just stands and stares, squinting a little. His dad stares back. Takes a sip of beer from the bottle and wipes the back of his hand across his mouth. It’s an action JJ himself does, which is jarring.

“What do you want?” his dad demands. “Coming back round here after years acting like butter wouldn’t fucking melt.”

JJ’s throat goes tight and restricted like it always does in this situation. His mind starts churning and all he can think of is smartass comments. Like, “loving what you’ve done with the place, pa,” in a wry and sarcastic tone, as he looks around. There are empty bottles and takeout containers everywhere. Clothes on the floor. There’s half a disassembled something on the table, plastic and metal intermingled.

His dad says, “what the fuck did you say to me?” which should be a warning shot. JJ’s pulse is racing (he can feel it in his ears) but he stands firm, boots on the worn floorboards that used to be covered by a reasonably homely rug until JJ got blood on it for the second time and had to throw it out, both sides ruined. He only learnt later on that soaking blood stains in warm water sets them firm. 

“I’m glad I’ve chosen such a wise investment. You’re really taking care of it.”

The bottle slams to the table loudly, right next to what looks like an anode. The chair falls backwards as Luke Maybank stands up.

“I don’t owe you shit, you fucker,” Luke snarls. He’s trembling, shaking, fists clenched around the edge of the table as though he’s physically restraining himself. JJ’s almost impressed by his resolve – he’s had concussions for much less. Been thrown across the kitchen just for walking out his room at the wrong moment. “You owe me. Your mom definitely had the right idea when she left your useless ass behind.”

JJ sighs and looks to the ceiling, even though something twists deep in his gut. “Good talk, dad. Real nice to see you. Same time next week?”

Experience has taught him not to turn his back, so he walks backwards out the door. Pulls it shut behind him. He hears his dad call something out – something with some heavy cussing, definitely some poisonous intent. JJ’s tempted to stand and listen, but with a glance at the sun in the sky he realises Kiara will be off her shift at the Wreck soon and she can always seem to tell if he’s listened to his dad too much. Wrinkles her nose and acts extra careful until she’s sure he’s not going to break or whatever she thinks he’s going to do.

It’s not habit to be at home, but there is a rhythm to the way he’s got used to inhabiting the Chateau again. There’s an air conditioning unit sat outside that he needs to install. Kiara found the hammock from where someone had folded it away at the end of the last summer. JJ’s slowly clearing the back yard and debating rebuilding the chicken coop. There are still all the nick-nacks and junk left over from Big John – everything that escaped John B’s spontaneous bonfire, anyway. JJ is careful not to make too much of an impression in the space. Careful not to move things around too much. John B is an especially sentimental type of guy.

JJ’s gutting the fish in the backyard when the screen door opens and closes. He’s squatted on the floor next to the outdoor shower (a hosepipe with a showerhead attachment), knife in one hand, fish in the other. He’s removing the scales with the back of a knife and has it all contained in a trash bag so that when he pulls out the guts, roe and gills, it doesn’t go everywhere.

Kiara leans against the side of the shack. “Gross.”

“Freshest you’ll find,” JJ informs her, and he can’t help the spread of a grin at her appearance, which is also gross. “Courtesy of Fisherman Phil.”

Kiara’s appraising the fish. JJ’s rinsing them out with the hosepipe; waiting for the water to run clear. It finally does, and JJ has four almost prepared fish in his hands, a bag of guts and scales on the ground.

“I’m not cooking them. I’m cooked out,” Kiara announces.

JJ holds one beheaded, de-finned and gutted fish and makes it swim towards Kiara’s face. Makes glug glug noises to accompany his performance. Her hand pushes at his wrist, but her lips quirk slightly at the corner. She looks tired – eyes dull, shoulders slumped.

There’s a firepit and a grill that JJ pulls from a shed and dumps the charred remains from the previous use on the ground. The grill’s spokes are black through use, but he tells Kiara with conviction that this will add more flavour.

There’s corn in the fridge, and asparagus, both of which he throws on the grill to stave off any criticism of lack of nutritional balance. There are tomatoes in the fridge, onions on the side – Kiara lists out instructions loudly on how to make a tomato salsa.

“You’re filthy,” she tells him as he drags two chairs around the firepit and pokes at one of the fish with a stick.

“You know it, babe.”

Her lips curl at the corners. “I meant dirty.”

“I heard you.”

“No, physically.”

“I got that too.”

Kiara swats at his arm, but she’s properly smiling now. “You’re covered in dirt.” She pokes at some grease on his arm. “What you been doing?”

“Helped with some boats.” The stick he’s chosen lacks dexterity and he can feel Kiara’s amused look as it starts to crack when he flips one of the fish over. He’s nothing if he isn’t persistent, so he ignores as it splinters and gets shorter. “Saw Heyward too. He seems good. Biceps the size of grapefruits.”

“Not melons?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

The smoke keeps away the most of the skeeters. JJ juggles plates as he scoops the cooked fish off with a fork, the stick abandoned after catching alight for the third time. Their knees bump as they eat. He’s even remembered the little slices of lemon for adding post cooking garnish. It tastes good; fresh. Although fish is sometimes way more effort than it’s worth, and he has to extract tiny bones from between his teeth.

“I don’t want to work at The Wreck anymore,” Kiara says into her plate.

“Then don’t.”

She sighs in the way that hints that he’s missed the point. He’s finished so he puts his plate on the floor and pushes his thumb into her knee until she slings her legs over his. He digs his knuckles into her calf and she tips her head back, sighs again.

“I can’t do nothing all day.”

“Get a job.”

“I have a job.”

“Get a different job.”

“Maybe. The Wreck’s really taken off – it’s crazy busy.”

“The Wreck’s always crazy busy.” He hits a spot on her calf which makes her leg twitch and her heel dig into his thigh. “Your dad must put crack in the salt shakers or something.”

“Crack’s expensive, so that would be a waste. Extremely fiscally inefficient.”

“Alright Barry. Didn’t realise you were an expert.”

She huffs something that could be a laugh or a sigh or just an exhalation through her nose.

“I thought maybe we could rent somewhere else as well. Somewhere that’s ours.”

JJ’s ready to protest – he can’t imagine calling anywhere home apart from the Chateau. He knows how to open doors silently, knows where to tread to be the quietest. Is the reason behind the majority of the dents in the plaster, or the marks on the ceiling. But he still feels compressed, somehow – living in half of it, tip-toeing around Big John and John B and Sarah. Their presence is everywhere – clothes in the cupboards, notes on the side. It’s abandoned but lived in and essentially a sea shack with sagging mattresses and windows that try but fail to be completely waterproof.

Instead he concedes with, “nowhere too Kook-y.”

“What, no koi pond or statue of yourself?”

“I wouldn’t say no to a statue. As long as it’s more flattering than David. That guy got seriously short changed.”

“Once again, you completely focussed on the wrong part of that statue. It’s considered one of the best sculptures in the world and you boiled it down to a phallic joke.”

“Does phallic mean-”

“Yes.”

“It’s understandable, really.”

Kiara still looks just as tired, but her mouth has reset from downturned to upturned. Her eyes are shut, his knuckles still pressing into her calves.

“Do you smell of fish?”

“Yeah, probably. Had to lie on Phil’s deck.”

“Lie on Phil’s what now?”

JJ can’t stop the grin. It’s quick and wide. “Goddamnit, I love you.”

Her eyes slide open and she looks at him sideways. Reaches out to rest a hand in the crook of his elbow. “You’re alright too. Still stink though.”

“It’s eau de OBX. Natural musk of the locals.”

“Go shower. No one’s going to rent to us if you smell like a fish and engines. It’s not a flattering mix.”

He collects their plates and kisses the crown of her head on the way past. Kiara curls her hand behind his neck and pulls him down – the plate collides with the side of her chair with a clatter, and the angle’s awkward – but he never says no to her, just braces one arm against the armrest.

“Is fish an aphrodisiac now?” he asks, because she’s puffing breaths against his cheek and looking more relaxed than she has all evening. Her pupils are blown and her gaze flashes to his hand as he swipes a thumb over her wrist.

“Absolutely not.”

There’s Kiara’s fancy shampoo in the shower, and some body wash that smells of oranges and cinnamon. JJ had never really thought about the bonuses of having a girlfriend before acquiring one, but the upgrade in toiletries is definitely a plus side. He has moisturiser now, and fancy razors that don’t snag his skin. She’s working on getting him to use an exfoliator which he knows he’s going to cave and use eventually, but her persuasive technique is amusing to watch.

Kiara’s on the porch when JJ emerges. He shakes his wet hair out over her just to annoy her, then slots himself on the couch next to her. She still seems kind of distracted or lost in her head.

“We can always leave again,” he points out, and he has an arm slung across her shoulders and is tracing a pattern on her bare upper arm. She’s changed into one of his tanks and some shorts, her hair all twisted on top of her head and smelling of smoke. His fingers itch for his Juul or a cigarette, but he lost it a few days ago and hasn’t missed it until now, which is probably some form of progress or something.

“I just thought that there would be more, y’know? That I’d just know what to do.”

JJ shrugs and it dislodges her for a moment – Kiara makes a noise of discontentment, turns her nose into his t-shirt. “It’s been like a month, Kie. Give yourself a break. Pope’s back soon; he can be our career’s advisor. That fucker loves a plan.”

He thinks she smiles. “He is good at planning.”

“The don of planning.”

Kiara falls asleep on his chest and he barely feels trapped by it anymore. Carries her to bed bridal style because now he actually eats enough, he’s pretty strong. Unlaces her converse and eases them off, and then her socks. Her eyes open blearily as he gets in next to her.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have come home,” she mumbles, words blurred because her arm’s thrown across her face. “Do you think we should have come home?”

“You’re kind of my home,” he says before he can overthink it, and it’s only because he doesn’t think she’ll remember this due to being mostly asleep. “I don’t give a shit where we actually live.”

“John B, is that you?”

“Fuck off.”

“Love you too, fish boy.”

JJ ends up back at the marina the next day, and the day after that. Talking to locals and people he went to school with. Fixing a few engines with the limited tools he has at his disposal. Kiara goes back to work some shifts at the Wreck, but is apparently only doing another week full time.

He hasn’t got any spare parts and so the most he can do is clean filters and tighten what’s already in place. One needs a new alternator because the belt’s almost worn through, but Harry looks at him blankly when he estimates how much a new one would be. It’s the end of summer which should mean they’re running high on funds from the tourist season, but JJ only has to look around at the storm battered marina and draw his own conclusions.

Word spreads fast and he starts getting requests for cars as well. Kiara comes out of The Wreck to find him working on an engine in the parking lot – she rolls her eyes, but returns with a pitcher of lemonade and a bowl of fries. Drags out a bar stool to sit next to him when she’s on her break. Leans over and starts pointing out all his mistakes with glee.

He may be shirtless and wrestling with a piston when someone demands, “are you that Maybank kid?”

Experience has taught him a lot. Taught him that he should probably not confirm the fact that he is that Maybank kid to an angry looking man when they’re both alone in an empty parking lot which JJ knows isn’t covered by cameras.

“Depends who’s asking,” he hedges eventually, glad for the wrench in his hand and the sun in the other man’s eyes.

“I’m asking.” The man’s stopped ten foot away, hands in his pockets. He’s wearing overalls which are tied at the waist, his shirt underneath covered in dirt. “You’re bad for business.”

It’s evolution or some shit that means JJ’s heart’s going like a jackhammer. That a sweat has broken out across his brow, right below the bandana that’s definitely John B’s. That he’s already assessed his exit points – calculated approximately how loud he’d have to shout to alert Kiara or anyone in The Wreck. They have the back door to the kitchen wide open to try and coax in any semblance of a breeze, but there’s also a radio playing loudly, and the pot washer whirring.

JJ opts for silence and appraisal. The man doesn’t look like a dealer looking to square any of Luke Maybank’s debts, but JJ’s been caught out by that before. Had let some woman in when he was ten because she told him she was a friend of her dad’s. Had been there to see his dad’s face fall when Luke walked in to see her sat on their couch, nice as pie.

Apparently the man sees something JJ didn’t know he was showing. “I’ve got a shop near here. Insurance. I can offer thirteen dollars an hour, as long as you stop fixing things up and stealing my clientele.”

“Fourteen. And I get to choose my hours.”

The man’s eyes narrow. JJ thinks he could be the guy who took over Abe’s shop just before JJ left. Luke worked at Abe’s for a few years until his employer could no longer turn a blind eye to the missing parts and persistent absenteeism. It’s where JJ spent his summers – sorting bolts and parts by size and wear, progressing to jumping into the pit to look at cars from below. Fitting his small hands where Luke’s couldn’t reach.

“Deal.” The man marches forwards, sticks his hand out. JJ looks at it for three seconds before switching the wrench to his other palm and shaking it briefly. “I’m Morgan. Down at Abe’s shop. You know where it is?”

“Yeah,” JJ’s shifted backwards to put space between them. “I’m JJ.”

Something like amusement lights his eyes. Morgan’s got salt and pepper hair and big hands; wrinkles around his mouth and eyes, like he frowns and laughs a lot. “I know who you are. Luke’s boy, right?”

JJ bristles, although he’s used to the association. “That’s me.” He doesn’t mean for it to be surly, curt, considering this guy could technically be his new boss or whatever.

“It’s fine by me, kid. Besides, Heyward’s vouched for you. And you’re running round with their daughter,” he jerks a thumb towards the Wreck, “and fixing shit for free, so I figure you can’t be all that bad.” JJ hums. His hand tightens and untightens around the wrench. Morgan slides out his phone from his overalls, squints at the screen. “I’ve gotta run, but I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

It takes a minute for the adrenaline to drain from his limbs once Morgan’s left the lot. JJ squints at the sun and tosses the wrench, waiting for his mind to still. Kiara comes out twenty minutes later, some red stain down the front of her apron, her hair all frizzed around the temple from the heat of the kitchen. She collapses into his side even though it’s too hot for prolonged physical contact.

“Think I’ve got a new job, at Abe’s old shop,” he tells her. He gulps from the iced tea she’s brought him. Wipes his mouth on the bandana in her hair, just to hear her sigh at him.

“Oh, with Morgan? He seems alright.”

JJ nods. Pulls at one of her curls, because he hasn’t been able to still his hands. “Scared the living shit out of me. Just appeared out of nowhere.”

Kiara wraps an arm around his waist. “He’s kind of like Heyward, I think. Bit gruff, but okay underneath it all.”

JJ thinks he might love Heyward, even though he knows he has no right to. It’s enough of an accolade for him, so he kisses Kiara when she pulls herself upright once more, and then bends over the engine with renewed vigour. He thinks it’s beyond salvage without the parts – Liam comes back to collect it when he calls, and JJ tells him about his new job at the shop and promises that he’ll try and do what he can on the price front if he drops it off in the morning.

Abe’s shop is mostly the same when JJ walks through the roller door. Two pits, stacks of tyres in the yard. Oil on the floor and racks of parts on the walls.

There are some boots poking out from under a car, then Morgan emerges on a creeper board. Looks kind of surprised to see JJ standing there, and JJ’s kind of surprised at himself.

Morgan gives him a tour of the shop and it’s disconcerting but familiar that everything’s still vaguely in the same place. There’re still his initials scratched into a metal workbench. He runs a thumb over them and Morgan sees it.

“Thought that might have been you.” There’s a pause, and Morgan’s looking around the shop. “Abe told me your dad was the best mechanic he’s ever had, but the worst employee. Said he was kind of hard on you sometimes.”

It’s a solid summary of Luke Maybank and JJ hasn’t got much more to add. Shrugs a shoulder and dips a hand in a plastic container of nuts and bolts so they clink and distract Morgan. They settle on core hours of ten until four, which is an agreeable schedule.

Liam comes around half an hour in and drops off the pickup JJ had been working on yesterday. Morgan looks across to the forecourt as JJ greets Liam with a backslap and takes the keys. He’d looked up new head gaskets and cam belts on eBay last night and determined they were pretty easy to come by. The pick up’s spluttering white fumes as JJ backs it over a pit.

“You’d be better off scrapping it,” Morgan grunts as JJ climbs out the cab. “It’s not worth anything anyway. Cost more to fix.”

Liam has a young kid at home and a second on the way. He was two grades above JJ in school but was in the same reading class, which is definitely saying something considering JJ was eventually diagnosed as being dyslexic as fuck.

“I’ll work on it after I’ve clocked off. And I’ll pay for the parts.”

Morgan’s looking at him, his mouth set in a line. “We ain’t a charity.”

“This isn’t charity. It’s a favour.”

Morgan gives up, waves a hand. “Don’t you be giving out too many favours, or we’re gonna have to have words.”

Kiara comes around after getting off her shift early. Morgan looks up as she saunters into the shop, something in tin foil in her hand. JJ’s technically clocked off but is working on the pick-up, extracting the cam belt carefully.

“Hey!” Kiara chirps, as Morgan looks at her. “I’m Kiara. My dad’s sent me over with this,” and she hands Morgan the package.

“My wife loves The Wreck’s brownies,” Morgan explains, as JJ shoots the package a look. “Trust me, the secret to a lasting relationship is just making each other happy.”

JJ can feel his nose wrinkling at sentimentality, and Kiara’s throwing him a smirk. Coming over to crowd around the pickup, asking him whether he’d tried sealant in the gasket before going for a straight repair.

“I hope he’s behaved himself,” she calls to Morgan, who glances over. Kiara’s sitting on the bumper, knee pressed to JJ’s, and JJ has to look away from her so Morgan doesn’t catch him making moon eyes.

“He’ll do,” Morgan relents, and Kiara grins sharply and presses a hand to JJ’s hip.

“That’s what I say.”

Kiara leaves before him, saying something about picking up takeout and meeting him at home. She sashays away in cut off denim shorts and an oversized t-shirt that could be his but may not be. Morgan’s looking at him as JJ washes grime from his knuckles.

“She’s nice,” the man says neutrally. JJ’s reflexively defensive, or offensive, or just charged up for confrontation or something.

Then he resets himself, looks at Morgan and sees nothing but honesty. “She’s the best.”

“You hold onto her, then.”

JJ salutes. “Yessir.”

Two days later Pope comes home. JJ asks for the day off and Morgan laughs a little before realising he’s being serious. Maybe Morgan’s heard the rumours that JJ Maybank now has more money than sense, and thus doesn’t really need a job. Maybe he’s just taken on JJ as some pet project or something. Because after laughing he goes serious, waves a hand and heaves a sigh and says that as long as he gets that goddamn pickup out of his sight, he can take the day.

JJ realises he’s miscalculated because Kiara’s in work and the ferry doesn’t dock until midday. He’s up unreasonably early and tries to freshen up the Chateau. Changes the sheets on John B’s bed just in case they stay over. Traipses around to Heyward’s store at half eleven and won’t stop talking at the man – keeps bouncing fruit off his elbow until Heyward snaps at him about bruising the goods. He eventually hands JJ a broom and pushes him into the small shed at the back masquerading as a stock room.

Some scrawny kid shoplifts a whole armful of chips and Heyward looks at JJ hard when he points it out. Heyward says, “no one leaves here with more than they came in with without me knowing about it.” JJ glances at him sharply, and Heyward stares back. “Yeah, even you, kid.”

JJ had always tried to avoid Heyward’s store as much as possible. But sometimes his stomach won out and he had to find something or he thought his hunger may grow too big and somehow consume him whole. It makes him feel guilty, so he takes out his wallet and slams three twenties on the counter. Heyward looks at them, then at him.

“The state’s paid for a few chips and cereal bars five times over. Put that away.”

JJ does so reluctantly, but when Heyward isn’t looking he slips them into the cash register. Pulls a bag of Doritos from the shelf and crunches on them obnoxiously, heels drumming into the counter. Heyward tells him he’s too old to be acting like a kid, and JJ asks him whether he’s too old to be his foster son. Heyward gets very serious and solemn and tells him _never._

Which makes that ache in his chest reappear and JJ tips some crumbs over the freshly swept floor as retribution or something.

Finally it’s time to go to the ferry, and JJ wonders out loud the entire way what Pope’s boyfriend is going to be like.

“He’s gotta be like, half as weird as Pope, or it’ll never work. But half as normal, or else they’ll be like, super weird and niche and struggle for couple friends without scaring anyone off.”

Pope’s finished his undergraduate and has started straight at med school at the Brody School. It’s under three hours away and he keeps floating the idea of coming home most weekends to escape the hyper competitive environment or something. JJ does listen but it’s hard to conceptualise – the only thing he feels competitive with is The Wreck, which is stealing all of Kiara’s time and energy.

Heyward’s pickup hasn’t even stopped when JJ throws open the door and darts to the ferry’s jetty. He picks up Pope mostly just to show off that he can, and also because it rattles the boy, so he gets all flustered and thrown off his stride, protesting loudly. There’s someone right behind him, someone who grabs Pope’s duffel which he drops in the commotion.

He’s tall and Asian and smiling. “You must be JJ.”

He doesn’t hold out a hand and JJ thinks Pope’s told him not to. JJ has his arm slung around Pope’s neck, holding the protesting boy close to his side uncompromisingly. “That’s me.”

Pope finally escapes his clutch, stoops to pick up his dislodged cap and put it back on his head. “JJ, this is Dae. Dae, this is JJ.”

Heyward approaches then; he hugs his son and shakes Dae’s hand. Dae has long, delicate fingers, and expensive looking clothes. There’s a band on his pinkie which looks suspiciously like a signet ring. They’re not reasons to dislike him, but JJ doesn’t think they’re endearing.

JJ is telling Pope about his new job when he sees Heyward and Pope exchanging a look at the mention of Morgan. JJ is aware that there’s probably been some meddling somewhere down the line, but it all seems to have worked out so far, so he’s content to let it slide.

They get dropped at the Chateau and Heyward makes Pope promise that he’ll be home for dinner. The door’s unlocked and JJ starts pulling beer out of the fridge, uncapping them on his teeth and passing them around. Dae’s standing in the living room looking around in a surprised but interested sort of way, and Pope’s fallen into his old rhythm of exasperation and correcting JJ’s misinformation. They collapse on the porch when Dae makes some comment about Pope’s wild freshman year which is the best thing JJ’s ever heard – even better when Dae gets out his phone with glee and shows him videos of a keg stand. Pope’s shirtless and messy and JJ hunches over the screen with delight.

Dae has a neutral sort of accent, especially in comparison to JJ and Pope’s who drawl and mumble. JJ says, “so where are you from?” interestedly.

He doesn’t really get the connotations of the question, but there’s a groan from the doorway and Kiara’s there, looking tired but pleased. “Sorry, he’s a dumbass. JJ, you can’t just go asking people where they’re from.”

It still takes a second or two to register – Pope’s sending him a flat, unimpressed look, and Dae looks vaguely uncomfortable. “Oh, shit – no, I meant his accent. Like, is it Canadian?” The disbelieving looks grow in intensity. JJ groans, sits back. “Honestly!”

Dae’s from Nebraska. Which means he’s never surfed. JJ is aghast at the suggestion – demands that they go the very next morning. Pope complains about it.

“Haven’t you got it out your system?”

“He’s part fish or something,” Kiara’s got a hand in his hair where he’s leaning back against the couch, tossing a rubber ball he’s found down the side of the couch from hand to hand.

JJ listens to Dae talking – Kiara’s better at the small talk, the questions about college and his family. His parents are South Korean and are both doctors. He talks about becoming a doctor as though it was inevitable – as though it was a simple consequence of his background. He muses he may give it up for something else, that he hasn’t quite decided yet. JJ expects Pope to be outraged at the suggestion, but he’s just watching his boyfriend with marvel. JJ surreptitiously Googles the brand of t-shirt Dae’s wearing and finds it costs more than JJ’s weekly pay check.

It’s only four when JJ checks his phone for the time, and there’s some text from Leo that the surf’s good down at Rixon. Kiara’s reading the text over his shoulder, says, “no,” pre-emptively. Which isn’t persuasive enough, because twenty minutes later they’re all in swim suits and JJ’s pulling John B’s old board from the shed for Dae. He demonstrates how he’s going to stand up in the water on the grass of the backyard a few times.

Kiara tries to reassure him. “Honestly, it’s easier in the water.”

“It definitely isn’t,” Pope protests. “There’s waves and the board moves and everything.” The three turn to look at him, JJ and Kiara with raised eyebrows. “Yup, okay, it’s way easier.”

The only vehicle they have which fits them all is Kiara’s dad’s SUV. It means she’s going to make them all sit on towels and brush sand off their feet on the way back, which is a mood kill. He also has to be extra careful whilst strapping boards to the roof so he doesn’t mark the paintwork.

Kiara’s packed a cooler and a blanket, but she’s only had half a shift today and looks more awake than he’s seen her in a while. She drives carefully, but more confidently than Italy. Rests her hand on JJ’s knee between gear changes. JJ makes some comment about Dae maybe wanting to take off his fancy ass signet ring. Dae looks at JJ’s hands, which are still covered in various rings, but JJ twists one around his finger.

“These aren’t worth anything, so.”

“Hey!” Kiara protests from where she’s stripping down to her bikini. “That one from Athens-”

“Costume jewellery, bro,” he dismisses. He doesn’t want to admit that that’s the only one he diligently removes every time. (Sometimes he takes off his mom’s wedding band, sometimes he doesn’t. Depends how he’s feeling).

Kiara’s pouting at him, fierce in a yellow bikini. She looks hot and adorable all at once. JJ kisses just above her eye and pushes her board into her arms.

Dae’s a reasonable swimmer, which is half the battle. Pope tries to teach him how to stand for a good twenty minutes before Kiara tells JJ to go rescue him. JJ isn’t trying to be a dick, but it just so happens that a wave rolls in and enables him to glide up to the pair and jump off nearby in a move which is pretty damn smooth.

Pope is saying something about sand banks and tides and momentum and trajectories, and Dae’s standing in the water next to his borrowed board looking perplexed.

“Jesus Christ, Pope. Trust you to make shit so complicated. Dae, all you’ve gotta do is paddle out, and then ride back in. When you’re ready, you can start standing up. Simple.”

Dae follows as JJ paddles out and turns back to the shore. Kiara’s straddling her board, knees in the water, bobbing gently. JJ gets distracted by the sight, quickly tries to refocus, points out the wave to Dae.

“So when I say so, start paddling like this,” JJ demonstrates scooping the water with his palm.

They’re out for an hour and a half in total and Dae manages to stand up two and a half times. Completely ploughs over Pope once, who ducks under the surf to escape him at Kiara’s panicked yell. He wipes out constantly, but comes up fighting each time.

Kiara drops Dae and Pope straight off at the Heyward’s. Yvonne sees them through the window and comes rushing out to greet them. Hugs Pope, and then Dae. She sees the retreating SUV and waves, smiles broadly at JJ. The window’s down, because Kiara wants her hair to dry, and she calls, “JJ, Kiara, come by soon!”

“Dae seems nice,” Kiara hedges as they pull out the driveway.

“Dae seems like full Kook.”

“We’re full Kook.”

“Only in two and a half years. Twenty five, remember?”

Kiara’s interlinked their hands without even hesitating over it. Only lets go to indicate and change gear. “Give him a chance.”

“He was a super asshole about med school, though. Like it was a hobby or something. Pope tried really fuckin’ hard to get there.”

Kiara puts her hand on his knee and he thinks it’s supposed to calm him. His leg’s bouncing and he’s chewing at the bands around his wrist without even realising it. They taste like saltwater.

“Don’t be a snob,” Kiara scolds, and she has a finger on her wrist to push his hand away from his mouth. JJ huffs, but lowers his forearm. Twists at his rings instead. “You like what – four people in this life? He was hardly gonna find someone you approved of straight off the bat.”

“I like at least ten,” JJ protests.

Summer gives way into Autumn and the beaches and downtown empty of tourists. The fishing season picks up; as does the rain. They have to wear wetsuits in the sea and The Wreck drops down to only opening Thursday through to Sunday, with trivia nights on Thursdays, and open mics on Sundays. Kiara spends hours trawling the websites of the two Kildare real estate agents that don’t specialise in second homes or mansions, and they view the three bedroom house for rent which is ideally located on the fringes of the Cut for JJ’s work, but close enough to the Carrera’s that they feel Kiara is safe. Most importantly, there’s a jetty at the back, and access to the water.

JJ brings the HMS Pogue around the day they move in. He only has his backpack, which takes all of five minutes to unpack. Kiara throws half of the contents into the laundry basket. The owners have gone for a strongly nautical theme – everything in various shades of white and blue and mock artistic prints of boats on the wall that have definitely been purchased at Goodwill or somewhere similar. The windows are big but rattle in the frames, and the back yard is neatly mown. There’s still a dirt drive, and the showerhead is too short so JJ has to duck under the spray, but it’s homely once Kiara’s purchased far too much homeware and taken over each room.

It’s called Sea View which is really fucking ironic considering the view is more of a swamp slash estuary. But, semantics.

Kiara starts doing yoga classes in the Wreck on the days it’s not open. Which seems like a lot of effort when JJ’s roped into moving tables and chairs and mopping floors before seven on a Monday morning. Kiara reminds him she’s the only one out of the pair who passed the yoga retreat in Guatemala (what can he say, the aftershock of the food poisoning debacle really threw off his feng shui) whenever he critiques her poses. She takes the classes in harem pants and a tank, her hair piled onto her head but curls escaping her tie-dye bandanas.

It takes a while for them to actually catch on. Kiara draws big colourful posters focussed around the word ‘free’ and puts them up on all lampposts around The Cut. She asks for donations to charity if anyone wants to make one. Starts building a small following of a variety of people.

All of the people who rely on boats for the tourist season bring them into the shop for servicing. The fleet of fishermen are out in force chasing King Mackerel and Striped Bass. JJ gets called down to the marina when something goes wrong. Pope starts calling him the Boat Doctor because he was around one time when JJ got a call and had to gather his bag onto the back of his bike and speed off.

By the time he’s back, Pope and Kiara have had a bottle and a bit of wine and settled on Propeller Paramedic which makes Kiara belly laugh and then snort and laugh again. JJ swipes all their clean laundry off the spare room’s bedroom (because they both hate putting laundry away, so the bed kind of works as a wardrobe) and tells them both fondly that they’re idiots and he hates them.

Pope gets a ridiculously long Christmas break and Kiara bullies him into attending trivia night at The Wreck. Kiara and Pope are the dream team of intellectual things and books and shit, but JJ holds his own with music and geography (mostly if he’s been to the place before).

John B comes back a week and a half before Christmas. JJ’s been checking on the Chateau and has finally installed the A/C unit, not that there was any demand for it currently. John B looks tired and distracted and sad. Gets really drunk on his first night back, asks JJ for weed, then stares at the ceiling. Kiara invites him around for dinner, relayed through JJ, and he gets a little sassy and sad and asks what’s wrong with the Chateau.

“You too good for us now, Maybank? Outgrown this palace?” he snipes, and JJ thinks it’s supposed to be in good humour but it kind of stings anyway. He texts Kiara that he’s staying at the Chateau and she turns up with Pope to find JJ and John B high and watching Bojack Horseman.

They win at trivia night again. John B meets Dae and agrees that he’s a little snobby. Kiara hears the criticism and swats at JJ’s head for indoctrinating John B against the newcomer. JJ splits his time between the Chateau and Sea View, because John B hates being alone and Sarah’s still in California for reasons unspecified. John B’s mouth goes all tight when someone questions why, so they learn to leave it be.

JJ goes home for a change of clothes before work. Kiara’s in the kitchen making a coffee and singing along to what he thinks could be their playlist. He keeps meaning to make a new one for home, almost doesn’t want to ruin the sanctity of the old one.

She says, “hey stranger,” without turning around, because she grew up in a household where someone’s entrance into your home automatically meant friend not foe.

“Yo.” JJ steals the coffee from her hand and takes a big gulp. Kiara steals it back, pushes at his shoulder. She’s been up a while, JJ can tell. Isn’t all rumpled with sleep. She tastes of coffee when he kisses her. He takes the mug from her hand and puts it on the side. Backs her against the counter, hands pulling down the strap of her tank, mouth chasing his fingertips. She hums and sighs into the air and it’s the best fucking noise.

He knows the precise moment she glances at the oven clock or remembers where she’s supposed to be, because she goes rigid. “JJ.”

“Ten minutes,” he promises. “I can do wham, bam, thank you ma’am.”

“I’m supposed to have left five minutes ago.” She extracts herself from his arms, pushes down from the counter. “Maybe if you were actually around we’d get more than ten minutes.”

There’s reproach in her tone and her gaze, as she downs the rest of her coffee and puts her cup in the sink.

“John B hates being alone,” he starts, and Kiara sighs and pulls her converse on.

“I know. John B could stay here. I’ve offered.”

“The Chateau is home, for him. Reminds him of his dad.”

Kiara exhales heavily. Not quite a sigh but close. Impatient. JJ can feel something in the air, something building. It makes him panic because Kiara and him squabble and argue constantly, but this feels like she’s lining up her next move. He asks, “have you asked Sarah about them?” as a diffusion technique.

Kiara’s shoulders slump. “She’s said about as much as him. Acting just as weirdly.”

“Oh, to be sixteen and solve all our issues with weed and beer.”

“You’ve paid for way too much therapy for that to still be valid.”

He feels safe enough to put an arm around her waist, press his nose into her neck. She smells of oranges and cinnamon and cocoa butter. “I’ll cook you dinner,” he promises. “Draft Pope into babysitting duty. He owes me for the whole jail time thing.”

“Fine. It better be some fancy shit.”

Morgan notices he’s kind of distracted at work and bullies him into telling him why. (Actually, JJ just tells him, and asks for recipes, because he can fry and boil shit but Kiara’s the real cook). He gets his wife to drop around something in a tupperware which is pretty fucking cool. It’s the second time JJ’s met Charlene and she waltzes in all perfume and loud mouth, air kisses the pair of them. His hands curl into fists reflexively but he hides them behind his back and smiles wide at her.

“Hey, did you know there’s a dog outside?” she asks them once she’s stored whatever concoction she’s brought around in the fridge.

The dog’s small and sandy coloured and potentially a puppy. It’s cold and damp outside, and the dog has to be coaxed from behind a trailer with a cookie. JJ sits on the ground and waits for it to get closer and closer, until it’s eating from his hand and he can scoop it up. He can feel the bones of its spine and ribs under the fluffy coat. The local veterinarian is shut for the day when he rings, so he has to go to the second closest, which is on the mainland. Morgan lends him a truck and JJ has to keep one hand on the dog to keep it from clambering into his lap. The dog alternates between licking and nibbling at his hand with tiny needle sharp teeth, or barking out the window. JJ’s ears are ringing louder than usual by the time he pulls into the parking lot.

She gets a clean bill of health, just needs feeding up. The vet peers at her teeth and squints a lot at her body before deciding she’s under a year old, but over six months. JJ holds her as still as possible as the vet scans for a chip and finds none. Says they’ll keep the details on record in case anyone comes forward, but other than that, JJ was good to go.

He puts the puppy on the dirt drive outside Sea View and waits until she pees. He has zero experience with dogs or animals or anything beyond fishing, but he scratches her behind the ear and calls her the best girl when she pees right next to his boot.

It’s dark and cold, so he scoops the dog up and carries her inside. The lights are all on and the table in the kitchen is laid with wine glasses and cutlery. There’s soft music playing from the speaker, and when he walks into the living room Kiara’s sitting on the couch with a book, her jaw all set, her eyebrows pulled together.

“I can explain,” he starts. Then the dog licks and nibbles at his chin, thrashes twice, and he has to put her down. She runs vaguely in a straight line, bounces of the couch, then trips over her own paws and skids across the floorboards. Kiara’s face changes from outrage to disbelief to adoration in approximately two seconds flat.

“What the hell?”

The dog’s drawn by her voice and bounds over, paws coming up to her ears with each step. She looks even smaller in the house, about the size of one of JJ’s boots. Like he could definitely step on her by accident.

“She was at the shop,” the dog does a bout turn and bounds back towards JJ. He sinks to the floor so he can fuss her. “The vet says there’s no chip.”

“JJ.” Kiara has a way of saying his name like no one else. Like it’s a whole sentence, a whole explanation.

He scoops up the dog and puts her next to his face so they can give double puppy eyes. Then the dog licks his cheek and he scratches her under the chin and looks at Kiara from under his eyelashes, because she’d once told him when she was high that it’s his cutest look.

Kiara holds her arms out and JJ deposits the dog into them. The sandy dog licks at her chin, then bites her nose, and she buries her face into her shoulder blade. “Fine,” Kiara relents, and so JJ takes the dog and does a victory dance around the living room. “But it’s yours, and your responsibility.”

JJ remembers the Tupperware at the last minute and runs to the borrowed van to retrieve it. It’s some brisket or something and is good warmed through in the microwave. The dog yaps around their ankles, and they haven’t got any dog food, so he puts some in a bowl on the floor. The dog gulps it down, runs four times around the living room, then collapses in a fluffy sandy coloured heap.

There’s Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia in the freezer which JJ roots out. Mostly because it says lighter on the label, which appeases Kiara, and also because it’s ice cream, which means it’s high in calories.

Kiara sends a picture of JJ holding the dog to the group chat and gets the appropriate adoration in response.

It’s not nearly so adorable at 2am.

“I think she may be Satan,” he grumbles, as the dog howls and yowls and clatters around downstairs. JJ had made a nest of their least favourite pillows in a pile in the kitchen, along with a water bowl. There’s a loud clatter, and Kiara pushes at him with her feet.

“Go save her before we lose our deposit.”

“I think that deposit is way gone, considering you backed into the side of the house.”

“It was so dark-”

“It’s a literal house-”

“I really needed to pee! And you’ve broken like, literally everything, because you can’t just leave things alone.”

“Joint effort, then.”

There’s another yowl, or a howl, then some high pitched yipping. Kiara shoves at him again, and he eventually gives up and rolls out of bed. Pulls on some sweats and a hoodie. The hoodie’s backwards and covers his face, but he just tugs the hood down and rolls with it.

He opens the door to chaos. The bowl is in pieces and there’s an inordinate amount of water across the linoleum, considering the size of the bowl. There are tiny bloody trails everywhere from presumably where the dog’s cut herself. He can’t tell whether there’s pee as well as water. The dog’s scrambling at his leg, nails sharp even through his sweats.

“I’m never having kids,” he tells the dog as he heaves her from the floor and holds her to his chest. He unlocks the back door and takes her out for a pee. She runs off as soon as her paws hit the floor, which he guesses he should have reasonably foreseen. It takes half an hour to coax her back in, the torch of his phone meagre in the gloom. His feet and the cuffs of his sweats are damp from the grass, and now there’s tiny little blobs of blood on the hoodie from her paw.

They have a semi impressive first aid kit Pope gave as a housewarming present. JJ winds a bandage around the dog’s paw and covers it with sterilised tape. It doesn’t stop her immediately gnawing at it.

The kitchen’s a mess and he doesn’t want her to choke to death on the stupid bandage, so he tucks her under one arm and takes her to the bedroom. Kiara’s asleep, snoring faintly, but wakes up with a jerk when the puppy starts chewing on her hair.

“This is not a solid plan,” she complains, as the dog becomes overwhelmed at JJ stripping off his sweats and hoodie and clambering back under the covers. The dog doesn’t know whether to join him, or keep chewing Kiara, and ends up tangled in the sheets and Kiara’s hair.

“It’s 3am. This is a solid plan.”

“What’s on her foot?”

“What?”

“Is it a bandage?”

JJ reaches into the darkness and feels around a bit. Comes into contact with Kiara’s hand, which is curved around the dog’s foot. “Oh yeah. She cut herself. Bleeding everywhere.”

“Oh, no, baby,” Kiara croons, and she pats at the dog’s head. “Oh, sweetie.”

The gentle tone should not make him feel things, but it does anyway. Kiara croons at the dog and then tucks the covers gently around her. Hooks her pinkie through JJ’s, and her ankle over his. It’s all very cosy – the dog wriggles occasionally, eventually ends up curled up between them, one paw twitching in sleep.

It’s not so cosy the next morning when he realises the dog is peeing on his feet.

He shouts, “no, you fucker, bad dog!” and jumps up, which makes the dog jump, then run, still peeing, across the bedroom.

“You’re scaring her!” Kiara protests from her duvet cocoon.

“Don’t put your feet my side – she’s pissed everywhere,” he warns, but is a fraction too late judging by Kiara’s unimpressed yelp.

He scoops the dog up under one arm and takes her to the backyard. It’s kind of a shutting the door after the horse has bolted scenario, but then she takes a dump which looks a lot like the brisket from yesterday. JJ pats her on the head twice.

“I wish someone celebrated every time I did a shit,” he complains to Kiara as she makes one of her fancy teas. Kiara tuts as he swigs juice straight from the carton; tosses a glass his way. He almost misses the catch, but then doesn’t, and tosses it straight back into the air in victory.

“You do your own celebrations.”

“You gotta back yourself in this life, Kie.”

He strips the sheets from their bed and puts the comforter on a hot wash. Kiara boils plain rice for the dog’s breakfast, which she looks distinctly unimpressed about.

“I think she’s called Beelzebub,” JJ informs her as they drive the borrowed truck to the tiny pet store downtown. They can pull up outside because it’s not tourist season, and Kiara holds the dog tightly in her arms.

“Like the devil?”

Big brown puppy eyes consider him as he looks at the dog. “She pissed on my feet, Kie.”

“I’ve puked on you before now.”

“You were sick,” he dismisses. “And you can puke on me anytime.”

“Bold of you to admit to that in public.”

JJ’s hand ghosts across Kiara’s lower back as he follows them into the store. A small bell rattles shrilly as the door closes behind them. Kiara heads straight for the collar and lead section and starts picking them up, holding different materials to the dog’s sandy coat.

“I didn’t even realise you knew who Beelzebub was,” Kiara comments idly, alternating between brown leather and black.

“Pope’s made me watch enough horror movies,” JJ reminds her. “Some of us are man enough to sit through them.”

Kiara pulls a face at him, then seems to settle on the brown leather. JJ picks up a brown wicker basket and a cage, because the Devil needs restraining.

There’s a homely woman behind the counter who coos over Beelzebub. Kiara’s buckled the collar around the dog’s neck and clipped a matching leash on – hands over the entire dog for the items to be scanned.

“Oh, how adorable,” the cashier croons, chucking the dog under her chin. “Is she for sale?”

Kiara says no at the same time as JJ says yes, then swats him on the arm. “She just needs some fine tuning,” Kiara decides. “JJ will manage.”

The cashier hands them a card for some dog training classes which are apparently held every other Sunday by some master dog trainer from the mainland, down in the community hall. Beelzebub sits in protest on the floor when she’s placed down and refuses to move, even when Kiara pulls gently on her leash. She only moves when JJ unwraps some fancy treat and holds it in front of her nose, and even then she’s prancing and snapping at his hand and not walking properly.

John B and Pope are at the Chateau when they pull up. They watch the dog sniffing everything in the living room, and then watch as JJ wrangles a forgotten and mostly empty carton of cigarettes out of her mouth.

John B seems more content than JJ’s seen him since he’s been home. It’s Christmas in two days and JJ gives Kiara these significant looks until she collars John B and drags him outside for one of their chats about emotions. Pope is enamoured by Beelzebub; even when she scratches his arm with her spiky claws. Pope and JJ get embroiled in a debate about dogs versus cats (JJ’s still bitter about the cat who scratched him in Greece, but Beelzebub has bitten him at least ten times now and he’s not really enamoured by either). Then JJ debates going surfing and Pope swats him round the head before they settle down to play Mario Kart.

John B and Kiara reappear after an hour, their cheeks and noses flushed red. Beelzebub throws herself down from the couch and darts over, fluff splaying as she moves. John B’s eyes are rimmed red and even Kiara looks kind of empty and exhausted. JJ lifts an arm so she can slot next to him and leech of his body heat. She puts Beelzebub on her knee and buries her hands in the warm brown fur and looks all content.

John B and Pope comes around to Sea View for Christmas Eve. Kiara makes hot chocolate laced with spiced rum and makes them all watch Love Actually. Beelzebub only pees inside three times all day, and only yowls for an hour and a half once she’s shut in her crate for the evening, which is an improvement. Not that Pope and John B agree, as they complain about it wildly in the group chat.

Kiara gets lumbered with the dog on Christmas Day, because she predicts her parents will be more lenient with her. John B and JJ are going to the Heyward’s for dinner. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a bit odd and empty about saying goodbye to his girlfriend and dog, even if he knew he’d be seeing them tomorrow. They’ve decided to do their own mini Christmas on the 26th because JJ’s not particularly bothered by the whole farce, but Kiara has a ridiculous attachment to sentimentality and trying to associate holidays with good memories or something.

The Heyward’s Christmas is kind of lowkey yet cloying. Yvonne makes them say grace around the table and they eat ham and mac and cheese and fried chicken, which is the best thing he’s ever tasted. Then the three boys all get presented with gifts, which is kind of overwhelming. They all have antique watches. JJ’s has a leather strap and a tiny compass on the face. It’s only after a minute that he realises he’s just kind of staring at it in his hands – Pope and John B are comparing theirs, and Pope is complaining good naturedly that he has to share everything these days.

JJ locks himself in the bathroom and has to remind himself to breath by sitting on the toilet seat. He slips the watch around his wrist. It looks good, beneath a beaded bracelet. Like someone took the time to actually think about what would suit him.

He almost vomits at that, but instead drinks from the tap, runs a hand through his hair and goes back downstairs.

John B says, “dude, you were ages.”

Pope winces in sympathy and says, “too much dairy again?”

It’s an out, so JJ smirks. “I’d give it twenty before you venture upstairs.”

John B’s nose wrinkles. “Did you open the window this time?”

“I’m not a complete heathen.”

JJ’s not sure when he started being opaque. But Heyward looks at him knowingly and Yvonne presses a warm hand to his shoulder blade when he’s helping tidy up in the kitchen (he’s not trusted with anything expensive and breakable, so is relegated to only drying the non-heirloom plates). There’s that spark in his chest and his breath hitches uncertainly.

Later, when he’s supposed to be asleep in a twin bed opposite John B, he slips out the window and jumps down the porch. The jump radiates up his ankles and rattles his knees. He drives his bike across the Cut and considers not cutting the engine outside the Maybank household. The lights are all still on, and his key still fits in the lock.

Luke Maybank is sat watching TV, a cigarette in one hand. He calls JJ _son_ and then he calls him a _waste of God’s pure oxygen_ and reminds him sweetly that everyone will realise that all eventually.

He also staggers to his feet and takes a swing because JJ’s just staring at him impassively, eyebrow hitched up. Says, “Merry Christmas to you too, dad,” sardonically. Luke makes a grab for his jacket and misses – JJ can just kind of swat him to one side. Years of alcohol and pills and whatever the fuck else have taken their toll – Luke’s collarbone juts above his shirt line and he feels kind of bony where JJ pushes him off with one hand.

It makes JJ hate his past self, which is a dangerous game to play. To realise that this man is actually weak, under it all. That he’s spent eighteen years living in fear, and now he can just bat him away like a skeeter.

“You’re getting above your station now, boy,” Luke snarls, but most of the fight has leaked from his body. JJ leaves him there, checks the fridge for groceries, and then hightails it back to Pope’s.

He has to ring John B five times before he answers. He can’t make it back in through the window because the porch shingles are too slippery with the light drizzle. His friend eventually stumbles sleepily down the stairs. Fumbles loudly with the latch. He touches a hand to JJ’s cheek which is like, weirdly intimate, but JJ kind of appreciates it.

It’s when they’re back lying in the twin beds of the Heyward’s spare room that John B asks, “was it worth it?”

There may be miles that separate them during term times. Often continents, recently. But JJ’s figuring that people can’t just fundamentally turn a switch and change, so he’s some version of the same JJ who John B’s known for years and years.

“No.”

“Is it ever worth it?”

JJ thinks there may be a tear rolling from one eye, but he turns his head to the pillow so it disappears as quick as it comes. “Probably not.”

John B’s breaths are deep and even and JJ presumes he’s fallen asleep. But then there’s something moving, dimly illuminated by the moonlight through the thin curtains. John B’s hand, extended towards him.

“What’s this? Are you ET now or some shit?”

But JJ’s hand reaches out anyway, of its own accord. There’s not that much room between the two beds and John B’s hand is cool.

“Love you, man.”

There’s that fire again, behind his breastbone. JJ curls his hand around John B’s wrist for a moment. Coughs against the lump in his throat. “Yeah. You too, dude.” He snatches his hand away, folds it under his head. “Now can I sleep, or is there more to this declaration? Do I need to kiss you better? Sing you to sleep?”

John B’s teeth flash white in the darkness. “Nah, that’s everything. I’ve heard your singing. You ain’t sending anyone to sleep with that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is for everyone who wanted to have jiara with a dog/puppy. i agree, they are the best.


	3. two.

*

Yvonne forces pancakes down them, steaming from the hot plate on her super fancy range oven that Pope treated her to when the gold first hit his bank account.

It’s peculiar to feel more in line than John B, as he shoves a cap onto his head and says, “better go before Kie starts a riot.”

“Whipped,” John B mumbles around a mouthful of fluffy goodness. Syrup drips down his chin and Yvonne looks on fondly. “So, so whipped.”

“You moved across the country for Sarah, dude,” JJ protests.

“You followed Kie around the world.” Pope tosses John B a napkin, watches until he submits and wipes his chin. “You’re both whipped.”

“You did call Dae for two hours on Christmas Day,” calls Yvonne from where she’s retreated to pour more pancake mix onto the hot plate, spatula brandished in preparation. Pope narrows his eyes at the betrayal.

“We’re all whipped,” John B negotiates eventually, slightly more solemn since the mention of Sarah. “But JJ more than anyone.”

“Whatever, dude. Jealousy does not suit you. See you, Mrs H. Pope. Dumbass.” He knocks his fist against Pope's, ruffles John B’s long hair. His friend ducks out the way, but not far enough. Yvonne hovers, looking like she wants some contact, so he sticks his arm out and shakes her hand briefly. John B coughs around a laugh.

“And you call me weird.” Pope’s lips are quirked sardonically at the corners. “Bye, JJ.”

The wind pulls at his hair as he drives his bike fast back to Sea View. Kiara’s dad’s SUV is in the driveway. The door’s unlocked and the window cracked open. He can smell something cooking already – sniffs the air as he pushes the door open.

A mass of fur scampers across the floor and collides with his shins. Kiara says, “don’t you dare, you little fucker,” but it’s not obvious who she’s talking to – the dog, who has an oven mitt in her mouth, or JJ – who’s paused, his hands about to skim over his girlfriend’s sides in the places she finds most ticklish.

Instead he presses a kiss to her forehead, hooks an arm around her shoulders and leans his chin on her head. Breathes her in. She’s always been able to read him, so she stands and waits, her arms loose around his waist.

“Bub did a poop and dad mistook it for a Ferrero Rocher,” Kiara breaks the silence eventually. “It was so bad.”

“Sounds like comedy gold to me.”

“He almost bit it, JJ.”

He snorts laughter into her hair, lets her go. They both look at the dog who’s splayed on the floor, cheerfully chewing JJ’s laces.

“She’s going to ruin our lives,” JJ decides.

“I love her already.”

It’s when Kiara smooths a careful hand over his hair that he appraises her with a narrowed eyed look. “You’ve spoken to John B,” he guesses. “I’m not gonna break, Kie.”

Kiara hums, trails a hand across his shoulder. “Christmas. Why at Christmas? Just leave him be and let yourself be happy for once.”

It makes him go all tense and twitchy and defensive. Hands curl into fists and he yanks the dog into his arms, says, “I think she’s gotta pee,” then marches outside.

It’s a nut and vegetable loaf for the second Christmas lunch, because Kiara’s flirting with the idea of Veganuary. He’s mostly just surprised it’s taken her this long, but she’d swatted at his head last time he’d voiced that opinion. It’s no turkey or Yvonne’s chicken, but someone cooking a meal for him because they want to hasn’t lost any of its appeal.

He makes them hot chocolates with an inordinate amount of marshmallows. They both cheer when Beelzebub poops outside, ruffling her fur. The dog’s body wags with excitement.

He’s not precisely seen a lot of Christmas films. Kiara bribes him to watch Love Actually and Polar Express, passing him a steady stream of Hershey’s kisses and peanut M&Ms so he stays on the couch. Moves onto actual kisses when she runs out of chocolate. The rain starts in mid-afternoon but he’s content in his cocoon; his girlfriend and his dog tucked either side of him. The TV screen lights Kiara’s face with the eery glow of blue light. Catches on the white of her eyes; backlights all the baby hair wisps around her temple.

She looks at him sideways, questioning. One hand squeezes his foot where it’s thrown over her lap.

He loves her. Knows it as an irrefutable fact. Kiara has always looked at him like he’s something – it may be exasperation, at times. Frustration or irritation. But always something more than some dirt from the Cut. Always something more than that Maybank boy.

But instead he says, “you have marshmallow on your cheek,” and then promptly licks it off.

*

Kiara does Veganuary with aplomb.

JJ consumes nut loaf after nut loaf. Listens ardently to the supposed health benefits of nutritional yeast over cheese.

He goes to the Heyward’s every Tuesday and consumes an inordinate amount of chicken wings. John B’s back in California. Pope’s knee deep in the beginning of a new term and new classes. The shop falls quiet – quiet enough that Morgan buys some beaten up wrecks from the junk yard and sets about making them work again. JJ thinks he sells them for the cost of the parts. It makes JJ feel accomplished, seeing a family driving away in a now-shining minivan.

Kiara argues with her dad in February about The Wreck’s menu. She wants them to go all vegan. Her dad laughs at the suggestion. She comes home with her eyes shining, hands on her hips as she declares she’s quit. JJ blinks at the announcement.

“Oh, cool,” he says eventually. “That’s what you want, right?”

Kiara nods decisively. “Definitely. I’m done. I need to find my own path. Sort my head out.”

She goes back a week later, for Valentines. He doesn’t remind her of her rant about how she was done with consumerism and the capitalism dream of overworking the people in order to quell civil disobedience.

He does meet her after her breakfast shift with their dog on a leash and a picnic hamper. Drives them down to Rixon’s and then clambers across the shifting dunes, her hand in his. Spreads out a picnic blanket which they have to sit with their legs facing either side on to stop it blowing away.

“Travel, alcohol, the sea,” he reminds her. “The perfect Valentines.”

Kiara leans against his shoulder even though it’s definitely too cold to be sat on a beach in February. Beelzebub eats some sand and they both ignore it with practiced ease.

She finds the roll of condoms at the bottom of the hamper and flicks them at his forehead. “If you think I’m getting butt naked outside in February, think again.”

She tastes a little of grease and breakfast foods – a smear of icing sugar along her jaw.

He’s packed two joints, for familiarity’s sake. The world is peaceful and calm despite the strong breeze that keeps extinguishing the joint.

“I think love was created for us,” he tells her, because he’s really fucking high. Verging on crossfaded, actually.

Kiara looks sideways at him, the joint between her fingers and then between her lips. Smoke through pursed, chapstick slicked lips has never looked so good.

“You’re worse than John B.” She’s smiling, lips tilted upwards. “You hopeless romantic.”

JJ shrugs, rolls his head back. “I’d die for you. You know that, right?”

The smile’s gone. Her lips are parted, her eyes wide. “JJ-”

“No, it’s okay. I know.”

“No – JJ – you don’t have to die for anyone. No one’s dying.” Her tongue touches her lower lip hesitantly. JJ tracks it, hand hanging loosely, joint between his fingers. “You’d be okay, you know. If we…”

“Oh my God, Kie, it’s Valentine’s Day. I agree, I’m not dying. Don’t kill the vibe.”

“I mean, you literally brought up death. You murdered the vibe in cold blood.”

He takes a tray of cupcakes to his dad’s on the third of March. They’re still in the fridge a week later, untouched.

Kiara and JJ plant sunflower seeds in April. Kiara makes it into a competition. She loves all her plants too much and kills them with kindness. JJ has managed to nurse two houseplants so far – Kiara looks on in dismay as he waters them with Gatorade and lemonade. Hers shrivel and die even though she only feeds them filtered and purified water; even though she rotates them between the floor and the windowsill so they get the supposed optimal light conditions. She buys the most nutrient rich organic compose and diligently droplets fertiliser into their pots. Still they wither and die painfully slowly, dropping brown leaves into their brightly painted pots.

JJ takes Beelzebub to work and ignores when Morgan complains. The dog mainly lies in her crate under the workbench and gets let out when JJ has to take a break to recalibrate his brain. Morgan bitches about her incessantly, but then one Thursday JJ walks in to find the entirety of the workbench penned in, with fancy spongy flooring and mats for the dog. She stretches out in the luxury, chewing a bone contentedly.

John B comes home for Spring Break. Pope makes them recite flashcards with him. Makes JJ sit exponentially still in boardshorts so he can point out all the bones and muscles in his body.

They’re four beers and a joint deep when JJ says, “yo, John B, where’s Sarah?”

John B and Pope go still. Pope looks up from his flashcard to scrutinise John B, his teeth caught in his lower lip.

“We, uh,” John B clears his throat. Picks at the label on his beer bottle. “We’re on a break.”

“Ah,” Pope shrinks into himself at the prospect of emotional vulnerability. “Sorry.”

“Shit, man,” JJ confirms. “Sucks.”

John B nods. “Yeah. It’s fucked.”

JJ flings an arm behind John B’s neck, doesn’t tense up as his friend leans his head back against it. He’s always been touchy, John B. Likes hugs and touches to shoulders; to throw his legs over the closest person. Usually Kiara, once upon a time. Then Sarah. He probably feels he can’t go back to Kiara now.

“I can call Kie,” JJ offers. “She’s good with feelings.”

John B’s a talker and Pope and JJ are distinctly not.

“This is good,” John B clasps a hand to JJ’s knee and he looks at it. “My boys, beer, and bud. Triple B. No bitches.”

JJ’s nose wrinkles reflexively because it’s kinda an insinuation that Kiara is a bitch. Which she’d call derogatory and probably kick John B in the shins for.

“Yeah,” says Pope, “we’ve got you, JB.”

*

Kiara insists on celebrating his birthday. She’s reined it in from a full on party to a low key gathering of the few people from school he’s actually remained in contact with, the Heyward’s and the Carrera’s. JJ’s pretended not to see the parcels she’s been smuggling in all week and hiding in the spare room’s wardrobe. He hates surprises. Has been stood in the doorway more times than he can count, resisting the temptation to find out all the small details.

She wakes him up with her head beneath the sheets and a waffle on a plate. It’s already shaping up to be a decent day.

Then he gets told to get out for two hours.

Maybe it’s an oversight on Kiara’s behalf – but there’s nowhere to go. She probably assumes the best of him, which is her mistake.

Luke hasn’t locked the door.

His father is sitting at the kitchen table, looking impassive. There’s a can of 7up cracked open next to him. He looks up and watches as JJ opens the door and ambles in, his hands in his pockets.

“Wondered when you’d show up,” Luke’s voice is unreadable, which makes JJ want to run. Instead he stops at a careful distance, eyeing his father warily. There’s paper on the table with some fancy header. Luke slides a sheet over. Watches with something akin to amusement as JJ remains at his safe distance. “I don’t bite, boy. Take a look.”

JJ likes to think he’s an independent spirit. Kiara tells him he’s too loyal. There’s still some fucked up part of him that craves this love and validation and he can’t quieten it down no matter what he does.

So he picks up the paper with the fancy header and he reads slowly on account of all the words moving before his eyes. He sees _cancer_ and he sees _lung_ and he hears his father coughing once, twice. Sees the can of 7up and the weight he’s lost.

“Fuck,” he says quietly.

Luke smiles wolfishly. “Fuck alright. Fucked, as well. And not in the good way.”

JJ stares at the paper in his hands and tries to think something other than _oh, fuck_.

“I want to die sober,” Luke’s voice is firm, resolute. “So I need rehab or some shit. Wonder if you can get that on your fancy ass insurance.”

The words are echoing dully in his head and JJ can only focus on _die._

_Diediediediedie._

JJ has wished for his father’s death countless times. Wished for his father’s sobriety even more. And now it could be within reach.

He was not enough for his father to resist the pills. But Luke Maybank fighting against medical opinion is.

The words panic attack don’t come to him until he’s slammed through the front door, Luke calling, “happy birthday, son!” after him as he goes. Then he’s sat on his bike and his fingers clench and unclench. Breathing is hard, his ribs tight against his lungs. He tries to remember what his therapist said. Ground yourself with taste and smell and sight.

He can smell the sharp petrol of his bike and the sandy salt washed scent of the Cut.

The wheels spin before they grip. The vodka burns in his throat.

The door slams off the wall and the first face he sees is Pope’s, which is a little concerned but relaxes at his entrance.

“Is this where I have to act surprised?” JJ grins easily. John B’s at his side, got a hand on the back of his neck and pushing a beer into his hand. Kiara emerges from the backdoor, Beelzebub in her arms.

“I said two hours,” she chastises, but he thinks it’s fond. “Not two days.”

“It’s been like, three hours forty,” he shrugs her off. Spins to shoot double finger guns at John B. “Wanna shotgun a beer and climb a tree?”

“A tree?” Pope looks between them. “What are you, three?”

“Fine. Wanna shotgun a beer and race up a tree?”

John B’s already retrieved two fresh cans from the fridge. Kiara looks scrutinising, her nose all wrinkled like it does when she’s really concentrating on something. JJ ignores the lead and broken glass in his stomach.

All of the adults arrive an hour later. Heyward and Mike both turn up with coolers full of meat and have a man-off in the backyard as they fire up the grill. Yvonne and Anna crack open prosecco and white wine and make fancy spritzers.

JJ has to lock himself in the upstairs bathroom and vomits into the toilet. It’s mostly acrid vodka and bile. He squints into the toilet bowl. Wipes strings of spit from his chin with the bamboo organic toilet paper Kiara buys. The feeling in his stomach doesn’t diminish.

The house is filled with laughter and chatter and Kiara's at every turn. Pressing a palm to his shoulder, to his lower back. She's collecting things like serving bowls and extra glasses and ice from their kitchen. Keeps one eye on their dog and one eye on JJ. Swoops in to save him when he's cornered by Anna who likes to go off on tangents he can never quite follow.

After they eat off recyclable disposable starch plates with sharks on them, JJ finds himself stood on the edge of the tiny jetty he likes to refer to as the pier. Heyward is there too, although JJ’s not sure when he arrived.

“I know life’s hard for you sometimes, JJ,” Heyward says. JJ tries really hard not to sway on the spot because he’s had a lot of beers. A lot of something else, at his cousin’s, in those two hours. “You’ve done a good job of it. And that’s all you, son. All of it.”

Heyward claps a hand to JJ’s shoulder and he wants to flinch away. Throw it off and then throw himself off the jetty.

“I’m proud of you, JJ.”

The blonde boy chokes on something that could be a laugh or a sob or just some sort of noise of disbelief.

“You’re not my dad.” JJ presses a knuckle into the corner of his mouth and drags it across. “Stop trying to be. It ain’t cute.”

Heyward looks at him. Really, really looks. Eyes moving all over his face. JJ feels like one of those butterflies in a collection. Pinned down with a fine pointed needle, right through the sternum.

“If that’s what you want, son.”

“I ain’t your fucking son. You’ve got one of those. Gonna be a doctor. And I’ve got a dad. I don’t need another.”

Heyward’s looking at him again. Straight on and wide-eyed.

“JJ-”

He wipes his hand across his mouth again. Sways on the spot. Just a little. “Tell Kie I’m going.”

“Where are you going? This is your house.”

“I fucking hate surprises.”

It’s not a surprise when the Pogues all meet him down at the Boneyard. It’s an incredibly obvious hiding place. JJ thinks that it’s probably intentionally so. Sometimes the fact that his thought process is able to be conceptualised by other people even when it remains a mystery to him makes him feel safe or known or some shit.

Kiara nestles herself in between his legs and leans back against him. John B and Pope flank either side. John B slings an arm around JJ’s shoulders. Pope pats his knee then leans his shoulder to his.

They’re silent. Don’t even comment on the smell emanating from him. Some mixture of weed and alcohol.

“We don’t have to do big birthdays,” Kiara ventures after a long, long pause. “We can just do Pogue style.”

“Good booze, good weed,” John B confirms. He’s tilted his head to rest his cheek against JJ’s shoulder and – JJ can put his chin on Kiara’s shoulder and an arm around Pope and John B.

“Good food,” Kiara interjects.

“I mean, that’s not top of the list. Weed. Alcohol. Maybe some fruit loops.”

“Oh, high cuisine.”

“Pope, I was way harsh to your dad,” JJ mumbles, and he so hasn’t got tears in his eyes or a lump in his throat.

“Yeah, he said.” There’s a pause. Pope pats at his knee again. “He’ll forgive you. Maybe.”

“Definitely,” Kiara leans back against JJ’s chest and her hair tickles his nose and his chin. “It’s okay, JJ.”

“I mean – I got you a pinata and everything,” John B mutters. “But that’s cool,” he hastens to add as someone likely glares at him. “That’s not strictly a birthday thing. We can do it tomorrow. Or Saturday, as a Saturday thing. Saturdays are good. A fine day, some may say.”

“John B,” says Pope.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“Yessir.”

*

“Don’t take this the wrong way.”

As openers go, it’s an intriguing one. JJ has a joint between two fingers and is squinting at Beelzebub who has a perchance for one corner of the yard.

The dog is currently sitting on her fluffy butt, staring right back at JJ.

He looks up as Kiara emerges, the strap of her camisole slipping down her shoulder. It’s the sticky, unbearable sort of heat that dries your mouth out with every inhale. The paper burns closer to his fingers. He squints at that, then the dog.

“JJ.”

“She’s getting real good at sit.”

Something eases from her shoulders. “Uh-huh. Better than you, at any rate.”

“Neuro-transmitters, Kie. Not got enough. Or too many. Pope’ll find a cure. Maybe.”

“You don’t need curing.”

Kiara takes one step off the decking slash porch and Beelzebub’s willpower finally gives way. She’s fully grown now, apparently. Grown into stubbornness, disobedience and disarray. There’s been countless vet’s visits from consuming non digestible items. There was one incident with a sock that they’ve sworn not to speak of.

He does mention it now and then, if Beelzebub or Kiara needs levelling.

Kiara smells of oranges with the faintest trace of grease and fried foods. Like she’s finished her shift and showered but not washed her hair because it dries it out. A little like the coconut oil she twists into the ends.

Their dog collides with Kiara’s legs, scrambles at her knees. JJ watches as his girlfriend bends to stroke her, a hand either side of her face as she smushes her cheeks. The wayward strap of her camisole means the top falls dangerously low at the front.

JJ looks away. Takes a drag of the joint. Beelzebub grows bored of her greeting and starts running laps despite the heat. She jumps straight over the dog specific paddling pool JJ bought off Amazon because he started panicking about heatstroke.

They watch as she jumps straight off the jetty into the swamp with a disproportionately small splash. Like a small pebble dropping into the water.

“There’s leftovers in the fridge,” Kiara brushes fur from her hands, squints into the sun.

“I’m going to John B’s.”

“I figured. There’s some for him too.”

JJ grinds the end of his joint beneath his heel.

“Don’t ride your bike when high.” Kiara turns and walks up the porch.

“Yes _mom_.”

She pauses halfway up the steps. Doesn’t look back. Keeps going.

*

JJ drives his dad to the hospital every day for a week every four weeks for chemotherapy. It’s mostly silent in the car.

His dad does say, “I always thought it would be something more exciting than being eaten up from the inside.”

JJ gets pulled over for crashing through a stop sign on their third day of the second cycle. Hands over his learner’s permit. His dad laughs when the officer asks whether he’s supervising.

“Unfortunately so.”

JJ gets a ticket. Stares at it in his hands because leaning over his dad to put it into the glove compartment is unthinkable. Being in close proximity for the drive to the mainland makes him want to claw his own skin off.

“You got all that money and you can’t even get your licence? What good are you, boy?”

Of all the comments, it’s one of the less barbed. JJ’s hands flex around the steering wheel. He watches the officer retreating in the rearview mirror. Remembers the times with Kiara when she clutches his hand when a cop drives past; the way her eyes dart in every mirror until they’re gone.

“Fuck you, dad.”

Chemo and cancer have eaten more than lung tissue. The fight is long gone. The violence forced into words.

The wait is four hours long. JJ usually puts his dog in a travel crate and takes her on a walk around all the nearby parks. Goes for dessert in every place with outdoor seating. His dad complains about the wet dog smell so JJ throws sticks into every dubious murky looking body of water he can find.

The day after the ticket, JJ gets the feeling he’s being followed. There aren’t any cops anywhere and he’s driven textbook – hands ten to five, or maybe ten past ten. He’s not sure which. Barely inches over the speed limit.

Luke’s grip fumbles with the car door handle. He has a lemon drop in one cheek because JJ read online that chemotherapy gives patients a coppery taste in their mouth.

The lights are all off at home. Beelzebub heads straight for her water bowl; the metal tags of her collar clang against the side.

JJ switches the light on and flinches back against the counter as it illuminates Kiara, a glass of red wine in one hand. It’s atmospheric. Sexy, maybe, if he wasn’t so emotionally drained.

“Fuck, Kie. Gave me a heart attack.”

“Are you dying?”

“What?”

“Are you? Pope has seen you at hospital on the mainland twice this week. He’s doing a placement there. Are you ill? Is this why you’ve been so weird?”

“What-”

“I called Morgan and he said you take weeks off with no explanation. Call in late. Have come in drunk, once. You’ve been weird – you’ve been off for months, now. Since summer. I thought maybe… Maybe John B and Sarah freaked you out. JJ – are you sick?”

Her eyes are glassy and it could be wine or the fact Beelzebub’s chewing lightly on her big toe.

“Kie-”

“Can we not, this time? Can you just be honest? For once?”

“I’ve not lied to you, Kie-”

Her palm slams against the table and dog and man alike flinch. Beelze runs to JJ, presses herself against his calf. “Don’t fucking do this, JJ. Tell me what the fuck is going on, because I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

JJ looks at his dog, then the ceiling. Then Kiara. Whose chin juts when she’s angry or feels like she’s justified in her emotions. Who stares at him now like she cares about the answer.

“My dad,” he relents eventually. “Lung cancer.”

Her lips twitch at the sides and it’s a smile, but not an amused one. It’s humourless and sharp.

“And you’re what – nursing him back to health?”

“Driving him to chemotherapy every four weeks because the drugs make him fall asleep at the wheel, yeah.”

“Does your therapist know about this?” Beelzebub stares back up at him. “Oh, my God. Are you even going to therapy?”

“There’s only so much you can do-”

“Shit, JJ.” The wine glass is abandoned now. The smallest dreg of red liquid in the bottom. JJ stares at that. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“You don’t like him.”

“Yeah, but I love you. They’re not mutually exclusive. I don’t understand it – whatever hold your dad has over you. But you’re struggling and I want to help and I can’t.”

“I don’t need your help. I’m fine.”

“Sure you are. Look just fine. Acting just peachy.”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, as your father will tell you.”

“And what does your father tell you? Thank you, son, for your kind service? I suppose this is just payment for your swell childhood.”

JJ hears the ticking of the audaciously big and yellow clock above the oven. The steady breaths of Beelzebub from where she’s pressed against his leg. Can feel the exhaustion behind his eyes, in his limbs.

“Night, Kie.”

“JJ-”

“I’m up early so I’ll take the spare.”

He sleeps all curled up to one side out of habit and even his dog abandons him halfway through the night.

*

John B says, “really, JJ?” when he cracks open a beer at half past ten on a Saturday morning.

The time doesn’t even register with him. He’s awake. He hasn’t got work. He’s thirsty.

“Don’t they say _it’s four o’clock somewhere_.”

“Like, Australia, maybe.”

“G’day mate,” JJ raises his beer. “Throw some shrimps on the barbie. Kangaroos and shit. You want one?”

“An Australian? Why not. Nice variety.”

JJ shakes his can at John B. John B shakes his head back. JJ shrugs, tips the alcohol into his mouth. A drop trickles down his chin. He swipes at it with the back of his hand, burps, leans his head back into the couch.

John B usually wanders around the Chateau with a running commentary about his next movements. He’d been dating idly, but it had all gone quiet on that front recently. His friend shrugged a lot whenever JJ pried, which he didn’t do often. Mostly left it to Pope and Kiara.

But now John B stops and perches his hands on his hips. “JJ.”

JJ looks up from where he’s pulled a pouch of tobacco out of his pocket and is working the lid off the battered tin of weed. “John B.”

“This is…”

JJ waits. Pauses from where he’s smoothing out the paper.

“This is…” John B tries again. “A lot.”

“What’s a lot?”

“You.”

“Bit late to be figuring that out right about now.”

“JJ.”

“John B.”

“You’re drinking too much. Acting mean. What’s up?”

It’s a blunt summary. JJ stares at John B for a long while. Then, “fuck you, dude.”

He doesn’t slam out the Chateau. Just meanders out the front whilst ignoring John B following him. Revs the bike loudly to drown out his words.

His cousin looks up at the bike as it bumps down the dirt drive to the squat complex of condos. There are two kids outside with buckets, building sandcastles out of the sandy dirt.

“JJ!” one greets as he kicks off his bike.

“Yo, Scar,” he ruffles the girl’s dark hair on the way past. “Your dad around?”

“Inside,” the girl slumps back to sit on the ground.

JJ’s cousin’s talents would have made him a world class horticulturist. The inside of the condo is filled with plants that Oscar Maybank likes to give away on special occasions.

There’s no judgement as JJ sinks into a faded deckchair out back. Oscar tips a beer bottle his way. “Yo, cous.”

JJ throws his legs out in front. “Yo. You got any more of that trippy shit?”

*

Kiara reaches for a mug in the cupboard by his head and he flinches backwards and laughs at himself. It’s a hollow, bitter laugh.

Kiara stills like she always does. And he just looks at her and barks a laugh. She looks steadily back.

*

Morgan teaches JJ how to fix up anything that comes in the shop when he finds him watching YouTube videos so he can figure out precisely why the Subaru Impreza isn’t running smoothly despite all the methods he’s tried. He’s reached the end of his very short rope of instinct and attempts. Resorted to sitting in the car’s shade squinting at his phone screen.

Morgan says, “I’m not paying you to sit around,” despite the fact he calls at least two coffee breaks a day and either talks at JJ or lets JJ talk at him for a good half an hour each time.

“I can’t figure out this engine.” JJ tilts the screen towards the man to prove his innocence.

Morgan looks at the phone then JJ then the engine. Blinks slowly. “Well shit kid, just let me show you. You can always ask.”

JJ shrugs a shoulder, slaps his dirty hands against his thighs as he stands up. “Don’t wanna interrupt your intense coffee drinking. Looked real important.”

“Uh-huh. Now watch this, smartass.”

*

“You’re like a bad smell,” John B complains. “I just can’t get rid of you. Always fuckin’ lingering.”

JJ always has a case of beer in the Chateau’s fridge and has reclaimed Big John’s room as his own. John B’s eyes light up whenever he pushes through the door. His friend always cooks too much for dinner and stacks the leftovers neatly in the fridge, unable to make himself throw anything in the trash. Kiara has to ransack the fridge once a week whilst JJ distracts John B, and then whisk the bag away before he notices. 

John B’s alone a lot and JJ knows how he hates it. The fear of being abandoned or something. He’s barely been around to Sea View. JJ thinks it’s something about seeing JJ outside of the confines of the Chateau and thinking he’s being outgrown.

“Someone’s gotta make sure you eat,” JJ points out easily. His dog is flopped in front of the A/C unit, her fur ruffling with the steady pulse of cool air. “Or make sure you eat something other than just packaged shit.”

“Packaged shit? Also known as food?”

“Vegetables and shit.”

“Kie’s really got in your head.” John B sounds impressed. “I feel like I should congratulate her.”

JJ hums, knocks a knee into John B’s. His friend collapses next to him, throws an arm over the side of the couch.

“I really appreciate you, man,” John B says quietly, after half an hour of mindlessly watching _Queer Eye_ has passed. JJ’s seen the episode before – Kiara makes him watch them whenever she needs cheering up. Which is most nights, recently. She’s even jumped ahead of him on Netflix. JJ flicks John B a quick, snatched glance. Frowns a little.

John B talks a lot about emotions but never usually with JJ.

“Like my papa always says, you gotta treat ‘em mean to keep ‘em keen.”

John B is looking straight at the side of his face. JJ can just feel his gaze. He keeps his eyes trained on the TV; flicks a bottlecap between his fingers.

“I mean it.”

“Put it back in your pants, JB.”

“I’m serious.”

JJ stares at the screen even though he can’t really see it. Squints a little bit. Takes a sip of his beer.

John B pats him on the shoulder and that’s that.

*

There’s a small build up of mail on Sea View’s doormat.

Beelzebub runs in ahead of him, scampering towards where her water bowl is usually located. The bowl’s still upturned in the drying rack where JJ left it last Tuesday.

The house is quiet and stale as he walks through.

Beelzebub’s nails clack on the wood flooring as she follows him faithfully, the faint sound of her steady panting filling the air.

Their bed is still freshly made, sheets pulled taut across the mattress. He rests one hand on the brushed cotton ethically sourced comforter Kiara insisted on. Then he grabs some clothes from the second drawer, pushes them into his backpack. Leaves.

*

The Wreck carries on doing open mic nights, but switches them to a Tuesday for the summer tourist season.

It’s to avoid the weekend tourists looking for a supposedly authentic dining experience, but to appease the locals who have started to return regularly for the night’s entertainment.

Kiara plays her ukulele and sings almost every time. It’s usually the Beatles or Marley or some crowd pleaser. She gets drawn into her own stratosphere, bent over her ukulele. Closes her eyes when she’s really reaching for the high note.

JJ attends every one and stands at the back so she can see him. She always seeks him out when she walks on stage. He always grins and nods and can see her shoulders rise and fall when she finds him there.

Not tonight.

She sings _I Can’t Make You Love Me_ and catches a ride back with her dad afterwards. Waves goodbye across the room.

JJ lies in Big John’s bed and thinks of her eyes and how they were looking everywhere but at him.

She has said previously repeatedly that the songs have no correlation to her life. He wonders about that a lot.

*

They go on the HMS Pogue for Kiara’s birthday and he makes her belly laugh so hard that she threatens to pee on the deck if he doesn’t stop.

“Gross, Carrera. Pee off the back like the rest of us.”

She jumps in to swim and comes out the water with rivulets cascading down her skin. He’s tempted to look away but doesn’t. Meets her gaze head on – tilts his head appraisingly.

“Damn, Carrera.”

“Not so bad yourself, Maybank.”

He’s in boardshorts, watching his girlfriend walk slowly across the deck towards him. She leaves a trail of seawater droplets in her wake. They have champagne in a bucket of ice water tucked under the console panel. They can all afford better boats, now. But there’s something about the familiarity of the Pogue.

The champagne fizzes over when he pops the cork. He licks the bubbles from his wrist; catches Kiara watching the movement. Moves towards her with the bottle in one hand and a smirk on his lips.

*

“I’m just trying to understand-”

“He’s my dad, Kiara. What else is there to understand? There’s nothing else to say.”

“I just don’t get it.”

“I’m not asking you to get it – just leave it, Kie.”

“You know what – no. Because of him you flinch and it takes you years to believe someone might actually give a shit about your existence. I still don’t think you’re fully sold on the idea. If someone moves too fast you either shut down or run away and its fucking soul destroying watching you having to rebuild yourself every time you spend a prolonged amount of time in the vicinity of your actual abuser. It’s like you – like you, I dunno – just enjoy fucking with yourself, or something.”

“He’s different now.”

“No, he’s not. He’s just sick and weak and probably just knows you could snap him like a Dorito if you wanted to.”

“Kie – just – stop. You have no idea, okay? Things were different for me, Pope and John B. We weren’t rich. We didn’t know if we had enough for rent or for food or pencils for school. It’s different, over here.”

Kiara’s face screws up and she looks about ready to let loose. “Different? So you think that makes it okay to use you as a living punchbag, does it? Or was that because he couldn’t afford a gym membership?”

JJ has Beelzebub's lead in his hand. Is stood stock still, staring at his girlfriend.

“Kiara,” he tries. “It’s fine.”

“Fine is not finding your boyfriend passed out on the couch for the second time this week because he can’t deal with driving his dad to the mainland. Shouldn’t have to deal with it.”

“Kie-”

“Fuck, JJ. Can’t you see it? Seriously? Jesus Christ. I’m going to my parents. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Her Converse are bright yellow and they’re the last thing he’s watching as she walks out.

*

It’s not exactly a surprise. JJ wonders why it hurts regardless of this fact.

“I just need some space,” Kiara says. The words sound polished, practiced.

JJ has his dog under one arm, standing barefoot in the kitchen. The morning light is muted through the windows.

“Chile’s a lot of fucking space.” JJ puts Beelzebub down on the floor and looks back at his girlfriend. Maybe girlfriend.

She has her hair in a neat braid. There’s a backpack by the door. The one she took around the world with memento’s sewn on from various countries.

“Things have been… Really difficult for me, here.”

“Difficult?”

The words are repeated numbly, through a mouth that doesn’t seem his own.

“Just a few weeks. A vacation.”

“A vacation. How about a staycation? I’ll cook. We can do pinatas on the beach.”

A car horn toots cheerfully out the front. One which sounds like a family safe gas efficient SUV.

He thinks she made up her mind weeks ago.

“I’ll be back,” Kiara says quietly, earnestly. “Just a few weeks.”

“I’ve heard that one before.”

Which is when she starts crying. She steps towards him but – he flinches backwards.

“JJ,” she whispers. “Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what? Fuck off under the guise of a holiday?”

“JJ.” Kiara presses a hand to her trembling mouth; says his name between her fingers. “I love you.”

“But you love Chile more – is that it? ‘cause excuse the fucking pun, but that’s fucking cold. Even for you.”

The person unknown leans their elbow on the horn in one long, persistent blast. Kiara’s hands fumble with the straps of her backpack and usually JJ would help her lever it onto her back. Usually he’d untuck her hair where it gets stuck under the myriad of straps. Usually he’d tug on the end of her braid just to have her smile at him.

Instead Kiara Carrera looks at him with tears on her face and then she says, “bye, JJ. I’ll be back soon.”

And she leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this took a WHILE
> 
> i really, really struggled with this one because of various things but yay for an actual update!!!


	4. three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buckle up, kids.
> 
> tw: addiction, alcohol and substance abuse, canon-typical abuse and violence, mentions of death/suicide

*

No Pogue on Pogue macking never made more sense than it does at the precise moment JJ turns up at the Chateau and John B and Pope fall silent unanimously at his approach.

They already know. He can tell by the way they look at him. Beelzebub’s scampering around his legs and he just looks at his friends, scrutinising their faces as he gets closer.

John B looks a cross between constipated and faux innocence. Pope looks like he’s wishing he too was on a plane to Chile just so he could avoid this exact conversation.

“My life is fucked,” JJ declares as he draws to a stop in front of them.

“You can handle things without her for a few weeks,” John B starts.

“If it remains a few weeks,” Pope mutters, like he can’t help himself. John B swings an exasperated look upon him.

“Dude-” he protests.

“He’s right.” JJ slumps onto the couch. “Last time I went on vacation with Kie we didn’t come home for four years. Her track record is to just keep running. Kook year. The whole around the world thing to avoid college and conversations about the future.”

“Like you’re the world champ at confronting your problems.” Pope takes a sip of his mug of tea and arches one eyebrow pointedly.

“Pope – I have literally been abandoned. I am in mourning. My life is in tatters before me.”

“Bro – your girlfriend’s gone on vacation because you’re acting like an asshole-”

“You literally just said it’s probably not a vacation-”

“Yeah, but she’s barely at the airport so we’ve probably gotta give her a chance-”

“Fuck this shit, I’m getting a beer. JB?”

It’s too early for it to be socially acceptable to start drinking. John B wilts under JJ’s loaded look.

“Fine,” he relents. “But only because you’re sad. No other reason.”

“Pope?”

Pope lifts his mug in response. “I want to go on record as advising that alcohol is not a good idea right now. Or most of the time, actually. But especially not now.”

“Pope. Do you. Want. A. Beer?”

“No. Thank. You.” He sips from the mug again and smacks his lips obnoxiously. “One of us has gotta keep all their faculties to make sure you don’t end up killing yourselves. Or each other.”

“It has been noted that you have assumed responsibility for our wellbeing. Many thanks.”

“That is so not what I meant.” Pope ducks out of the way as JJ tries to ruffle his hair, scowling as the tea slops precariously in the mug and a few droplets spill over onto his lap.

JJ’s hand curves around the fridge door handle and he stands there. Tries to process the morning. There’s still the ever-present feeling of slight guilt as he cracks open a beer much too early. He knows what Kiara would say. Or not say, more particularly. She’d raise her eyebrows and purse her lips. Maybe roll her eyes. Not say anything directly. It’s the indirect things that have the biggest impact; the insinuation.

It’s not exactly pride when John B ends up as sloppy as he is. When they’re eating raw ramen in the kitchen of the Chateau, slumped against the cabinets. When they take it in turn to crumble it into each other’s mouths. It’s barely four in the afternoon and Oscar had dropped the weed around for a negligible amount after the longer than usual phone call.

It’s more like bitterness, when John B’s slumped over the toilet. JJ sits in the bathtub and pats his friend’s head occasionally. Lights a joint – blows the smoke towards the ceiling. Pope sighs and clambers over him to crack open the window. Keeps checking John B’s vitals and prompting him with sips of water. JJ can basically see the cogs in his mind working, fretting over the various scenarios that could arise.

“Too much knowledge is a dangerous thing,” JJ informs Pope grandly. He can rest his boots at the end of the bathtub, either side of the taps. Hook his wrist over the side.

“Too much of illicit substances is also a dangerous thing.” Pope has a hair tie in one hand and keeps scrabbling in vain at the longer strands of John B’s hair. John B’s head flops between the wall and the plastic seat of the toilet. His eyelids flicker open – focus, then unfocus again.

“Love you guys,” he mutters faintly.

JJ looks mournfully at the joint in his hand. Balances it carefully on the edge of the enamel tub, a bottle of shampoo holding it in place at the filter end.

“You can cut up dead bodies and you can’t tie up hair. Disgraceful.”

“Not exactly a doctor’s necessity, JJ.”

“Tourniquet, maybe?”

The hair slips through Pope’s fingers once more as he tries to scrape it into place. John B doesn’t help matters; he slumps forwards to retch into the water. JJ wrinkles his nose as the smell of bile fills the small tiled room.

It’s muscle memory or habit to braid the longer strands back from John B’s eyes. The edge of the bathtub digs into his ribs as he leans over it. John B hums and tilts his head into the contact. JJ slaps his friend’s shoulder gently when he’s secured the tie around the ends. It’s a braid converted into topknot, but it does the job.

Pope pats John B’s back vaguely. John B makes some muttered affirmation. Shifts his legs on the floor.

“I’m getting too old for this.” Pope perches on the edge of the bathtub where JJ’s taken up residence once more. JJ blows smoke towards him just so he wrinkles his nose and pushes at his ankle.

“Bro, you’re like, early twenties. If there was ever a time for fucking around and doing stupid shit, this is it.”

“You’ve been saying that as long as I can remember.”

“Pogues for life,” John B mumbles. He brings up his hand weakly to do finger guns. JJ smirks, knocks his fist against him.

“You’re a bad influence,” Pope accuses.

“Hey, he definitely did this to himself.” JJ lifts his head to slant Pope a look.

There must be something in his tone or his face because Pope softens minutely. “You two are the worst.”

“You wouldn’t have us any other way.”

*

Kiara calls whilst he’s fixing up some engine. He sees his phone screen lighting up behind Morgan but his boss is engrossed in some re-telling of Charlene’s disastrous cooking attempt. She seems to have more failures than successes, but JJ gets the feeling Morgan doesn’t admit to her disasters.

The screen lights up and he thinks she sees her call picture – it’s some picture of a goat they’d seen in India that JJ had insisted was her uncanny likeness.

She doesn’t leave a message because he never listens to them. There’s something in the trepidation of calling voicemail.

She doesn’t text, either. Doesn’t answer when he rings back ten minutes later.

The screen with her name in block capitals taunts him. He’s tempted to hurl his phone towards the concrete floor. Settles for dropping it non-too-delicately on a workbench.

*

They finally speak after eight days.

His phone is on seven percent battery and likes to fizzle out of functionality at around three percent.

Kiara’s voice is distant, then too loud.

“JJ?”

“Kie.”

“JJ? Hello?”

“I can hear you-”

“JJ?”

“Are you-”

“JJ! Hi.”

“Hi.”

His lips are dry. JJ touches at them with his tongue.

“How’re you?”

“Good, yeah. Ploughing on. You? How’s Chile?”

“It’s – it’s good. Yeah. Really good. Cold.”

“It is October.”

“Yeah, I know.” JJ runs a hand over the edge of the kitchen table. There’s dust on his fingertips when he looks at them. “You okay?”

“We’ve already covered that.”

“Sure. How’s my baby?”

“Are we not one and the same?”

“JJ.”

“She’s good. Annoying as ever. I keep waiting for her batteries to run out.”

“Any day now.”

“I live in hope.” His palm’s damp against the metal. He clutches the phone tighter so it doesn’t slip from his hand. “You’re staying,” he guesses. The pause is longer over the airwaves.

“Not _staying_ staying-”

“But not coming back.”

“Not just yet.” There’s some rustling, like she’s moving to another room. Beelzebub pads into the kitchen, looks at him questioningly. “You can always come here too.”

“I haven’t got the vacation days.”

Neither of them point out that the job is not a necessity. JJ knows that if he just asked Morgan would wave him right onto the plane.

There’s more silence. Then desperation. “I’m not leaving you, JJ.”

“You’re in a different country.”

“On vacation.”

“If that’s what you call it.”

“It’s not what I call it – it’s what it is.” Beelzebub has finished her circuit of the kitchen and starts chewing at the back-door mat.

There’s a few more minutes of chat and quasi sarcastic quips. JJ hangs up and thinks his one and only relationship just wrapped itself up in a seven minute thirty-six-second-long phone call.

He does Google flights to Chile. His thumb hovers over the buy button for an inhumanly long time. Then his phone dies and it’s probably fate that’s had a hand in that, so he leaves his phone on the side and goes to the sea.

*

Oscar finished High School around the same time that JJ started.

He was one of the first to show JJ how to throw a punch. Although more of a pacifist, Oscar knew how to fight dirty. How to scare your opponent just by getting up in their face with enough bluster to make them leave you alone. It was Oscar who taught him the importance of cleaning wounds and not picking at the scabs.

It was Oscar’s house JJ got dumped at when his mom left and his dad decided he couldn’t cope.

It’s also Oscar’s house he goes to now, when the Cut doesn’t make sense and his life has narrowed to Kildare once more.

“You ever thought you’d leave here?” he asks his cousin.

Oscar has two kids and another on the way. The eldest’s mom split when she was only four. She was born when they were still in High School – just seventeen years between father and daughter.

The man pauses where he’s rolling a joint. The kids are squabbling inside the condo. Oscar yells, “girls! Play nice!” Then he looks back to JJ. “Where would we go?”

JJ looks at his knee. “I don’t fucking know, man. I don’t fucking know.”

The lie tastes sweet on his tongue. He knows precisely where he’d go.

*

It’s not one easy decision. He doesn’t buy a bottle of whiskey straight away.

It starts as a couple of beers on the porch of the Chateau; John B matching drink for drink. It’s a joint or two in the hammock whilst talking about the world and distinctly not talking about Sarah and Kiara.

It slips into a few more beers and getting a dryness in his mouth when he hasn’t had one. It’s the way his mind races when he lies down at night and how weed and booze run ram shod over the harsh edges of past interactions.

He has a movie strip in his head of all the times with Kiara he fucked up. He can replay the memories whether he wants to or not.

From there, it’s a shot of whiskey because it’s less liquid and means he has to piss less. Rum because there’s a bottle in the cupboard at Seaview. Vodka because he can put it in a glass and pretend it’s water.

He visits John B a couple of nights a week, then Oscar a couple more. The rest are spent at Seaview, or wandering around the island.

He thinks he might have ended up here anyway. Literally – at the Boneyard with a backpack full of glass bottles, bare feet buried in the cool sand. Metaphorically – in some cycle where alcohol makes the thoughts worse, but only alcohol makes them disappear.

The stars have always grounded him. Reminded him that he is a very small entity in a very big universe. The thought is both reassuring and nihilistic.

Kiara calls at 7.30pm as she does every single Saturday. Sometimes he lets it ring out. Sometimes he jabs the decline button. Today he watches as she calls twice, then gives up. His phone goes dark and then lights up as a message floats on screen. He swipes it away before it’s even taken residence.

*

Heyward isn’t different around JJ, even after he was a straight up bitch to him. It kind of rankles and JJ can’t put his finger on why – just that there should be some repercussions. He’s tempted to ask Heyward to slug him right in the face just so all the chakras can realign and the hollowness and guilt can stop gnawing on his stomach every time he looks at the older man.

Yvonne makes an extra portion whenever he drops around. There was a point where he went every week but he doesn’t now unless Pope’s there as a buffer.

It’s just – people look at him with expectation. He’d rather they didn’t. Rather they all went back to how they used to look at him, with their top lip curled ever so slightly. Brow furrowed; a hand curved protectively around their child’s shoulder. Not wanting their progeny to fraternise with those Maybanks. When they only time he came onto any Kook’s radar was when they wanted a lawn mowing or a cocktail shaking up sharpish.

One fine balmy Thursday afternoon JJ tells Morgan to _fuck off_ offhandedly when he asks whether he’s finished on an engine. Morgan stops dead in his tracks.

“What did you say?”

JJ’s blood buzzes in his veins and some small part of his twisted up brain thinks _finally_. “You heard me.”

But Morgan doesn’t raise a fist. In fact, he steps backwards. Shakes his head. “You can take that attitude right out of here, kid.”

So he does.

*

There’s a packet of lemon drops permanently in his Jeep’s glove compartment to try and eradicate the coppery taste that chemotherapy causes.

He got his licence two months after Kiara left. He’d wanted to text her the second it was in his hand. Wanted to hear her voice. Instead, he’d rung his cousin. Oscar is less effort to deal with than John B.

They can sit in worn out deckchairs bundled against the cold and talk about whatever came up that day. Sometimes his two kids come closer, blink with their wide eyes until Oscar sends them away on some errand.

There is always someone dropping around. Money and baggies passing hands. Always outside, never in. They never go across the threshold.

One time, JJ pulls up just as Barry is pulling away. Their eyes catch and Barry smirks that same familiar smirk. JJ looks blankly back but there’s some pull, faint in his stomach, something which hooks behind his spine uncomfortably.

Oscar has only ever pushed weed. But he’s stacking baggies filled with something white into the top cupboard when JJ walks in. JJ watches as his cousin flinches against the counter at the sound of the door – how he looks frantically over his shoulder. Relaxes when he sees JJ.

“Dude,” Oscar complains. Keeps transferring the clear plastic from backpack to plastic box. “Ever heard of knocking?”

JJ stops and stares at the baggies. “Oscar, man. I didn’t think you were into this shit.”

“Man’s gotta eat, right?”

“I can cover you-”

“I’m good, I’m good.”

“Bro-”

“Maybank.” Oscar slides the box into the top shelf and shuts the cupboard sharply. Buckles on a padlock which he checks twice. “Leave it.”

*

The winter makes JJ restless because the sea’s too cold to bother with unless the surf is worth risking your balls for. John B is less inclined to take the Pogue out unless it promises to be a clear sunny day, and that is never a guarantee on Kildare waters.

Instead they bundle up and smoke joints on the porch, or play Mario Kart inside. John B relented and purchased a flat screen TV which has already fallen off the unit it’s precariously balanced on twice. The screen flickers sometimes as a result. Usually when John B’s losing at Mario Kart, JJ’s noticed.

It’s when JJ’s creaming John B once again on the Rainbow Bridge that his friend says casually, “looks like Sarah and Kie are with each other.”

JJ deleted most of the apps on his phone when they wouldn’t stop shouting at him. Barely carries his phone around at all now. He glances at John B who’s staring resolutely at the TV screen, blue light making his features glow. The light outside has faded but the pair are simultaneously too stubborn and too idle to get up and turn the lights on.

“Oh,” JJ says dumbly. It’s the two subjects that are determinedly avoided at all costs.

“Yeah. In Guatemala.”

“Yoga?”

“Yeah – some yoga retreat thing, it looks like. Jungle and stuff.”

John B’s still staring at the TV screen in determinedly casual way.

“Kie puked on me when we went there,” JJ recalls. He’s turned back to the TV, can feel John B’s eyes flickering briefly to him.

“For real?”

“Yeah. Woke me up. Said ‘I don’t feel good’ and then chucked up all over me. There was rice and beans coming out her nose.”

John B laughs and doesn’t even notice as Princess Peach spins out of control on screen. “Her nose?”

“It was so gross.”

John B’s still smiling, but it fades slowly. JJ stabs the buttons on the teeny white steering wheel a little more ferociously than the situation warrants.

“Sarah loved watching you guys go around the world,” John B starts. His voice is quieter. “We always said we would, once she graduated. Get all your best recommendations and jet off for a few months.”

“She’s totally got enough money to buy her own personal island.”

John B flicks at the unused wrist strap. “Yeah, probably. She never flaunted it though – took it for granted, maybe, but she was never like Topper level, you know?” JJ makes a small grunt of acknowledgement. Redeems first place in the race. “You ever speak to Kie?”

Something cold and hard stabs him in the gut. JJ shakes his head briefly. “Not really.”

“Are you two like, done?”

“She’s run off to another country and been gone four months already. I think the meaning’s clear.”

“But has she said that?”

JJ throws the tiny white wheel to the ground as he crosses the finishing line in second place. Princess Peach consistently running off the track and then manifesting on the track once more on the split screen keeps catching JJ’s gaze. “Just to be clear, I’m not paying for this therapy session. Those assholes charge you a hundred dollars and they barely even talk themselves.”

“Has she?”

“Are _you_ talking to Sarah?”

“No. Well, sometimes.” John B’s attention is easily waylaid. “Do you think I should?”

“Do you want to?”

“Yeah – yeah, of course. Okay. Maybe I will.”

“You do that.”

“Do you ever wonder why?”

“Why what?”

“Why – why everything. Kiara going away. Sarah…”

“Bound to happen eventually, don’t you think? Law of probability, law of averages. All that.”

John B’s chest rises in a sigh. “Maybe you’re right.”

“I often am.”

John B nods. The victory tastes bitter.

*

It’s not the choices JJ makes. It’s more the absence of choices.

It’s easier to drink than to think. It’s easier to go about his day off centre, not quite sober.

It’s easy to call his cousin’s number and easy to avoid the Chateau and hide out at home with a bottle of whiskey. He likes ouzo too, because it reminds him of Greece and feeling warm in a double bed with Kiara at his side and the rain pattering gently against the window pane.

He likes alcohol and he likes weed and he likes watching cartoons on Netflix to fill his vision and his mind.

He also likes his dog because she presses herself to his legs when he’s lying in bed and barks so he has to get up to let her out. He has to walk her around the neighbourhood and sometimes it feels like he’s clutching her leash like an anchor on an ocean buffeted ship.

It’s not a problem, just a socially acceptable crutch to get him through a slight downturn in his otherwise peachy life. It’s not a problem until he’s vomiting the morning after – in the nearest toilet, in the sink. Now, off the back porch, which is not ideal as Beelzebub considers it an all you can eat buffet. He’s attempting to wrestle her to one side with his foot and wash away the remnants with a bucket of hot water at the precise moment that the van rattles onto the dirt driveway out front.

JJ distinguishes the sound – knows the timbre of the engine anywhere. It’s not enough time to do anything about his current presentation. But they’ve seen him high and they’ve seen him drunk; seen him sick, angry, seen him with a gun pressed to a man’s head; seen him lie. Seen him beaten; seen him scared.

But there’s still a new look in Pope Heyward’s eye as he rounds the corner. Like he’s braced himself for impact.

John B says, “JJ! My man!”

Pope says, “you’re right, he looks like shit.”

JJ places the bucket back on the wooden porch. “Hello to you too, asshole.”

Pope comes home once every two weeks for reasons unknown. Sometimes Dae comes with him, which are the visits JJ cuts short. He mostly blames them on the dog.

Speaking of, John B and Pope have both pulled up short and are looking at the watered down puke at the foot of the porch. “Dog ate a sock or something,” he explains easily.

“Marinated in rum, was it? Is that a local delicacy now or something?”

“Pope,” JJ sighs tiredly. There’s still the afterburn of bile or acid in his throat.

Pope and John B wait as though they’re expecting more.

“Right,” John B bustles when he realises there isn’t. “Tea, anyone? Coffee? Beer?” Pope shoots him a look that could freeze a camel. “Joking, obviously.”

John B traipses into the house. Pope stays on the porch, several feet away.

“JJ-” he starts.

“Pope, don’t get your head in a twist. No emotions. Okay? There’s just some shit right now and it’s fine, I’m cool.”

“Sure you are.”

“Who taught you to be salty? Can they take it back? I would like a refund. Bring me back sugar sweet Pope.”

“What, like, third grade Pope?”

“The superior Pope. The not on my ass Pope. The live and let live until they die and I can cut them up Pope.”

“He grew up. Maybe you should try it.”

“Hey, I buy all of my alcohol legally now. Barely get carded.”

“That is so not what I meant.”

JJ bares his teeth in a semblance of a smile and Pope looks at him for a long moment.

“Pope.”

“JJ.”

“Shut the fuck up, man.”

“I’ve barely said anything.”

“Alright. Pope, stop looking at me like that.”

Pope pats his shoulder on the way past. JJ can feel the warmth of his palm through a hole in his t-shirt and it’s reassuring and frightening all at once.

*

JJ’s dad calls when he’s had three beers and one small whiskey in one of two of the only bars on the Cut that stay open year-round. Some guy hears him talking to Luke – makes some comment about how it’s good riddance to bad trash if Luke Maybank were to meet his untimely demise. JJ thinks of his dad who’d been talking about blood and vomit and medicine; thinks of how this guy has been squaring up to everyone all evening. How he’d jostled against JJ at least three times already. Keeps mouthing off about anything and everything. So much so that the usually stoic bartender has moved further down to dry the glasses in peace.

JJ finishes his whiskey in one fell swoop. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “How about we take this outside, chief?”

The guy is someone JJ vaguely recognises. The whole situation is laughable – the guy lifts his hands in front of his face, then takes a wild, unbalanced swing. His face flashes in and out of the dim street lighting. JJ sidesteps it easily, then throws his whole weight behind his own returned favour. It connects with the guy’s chin in a blow of poetic, beautiful justice.

It’s also the exact time a cop patrol car idles slowly passed.

The cuffs are cold around his wrists and he has to place his keys in a bowl at the station. He makes some joke about it and gets a blank faced response.

“Tough crowd,” he complains as he’s uncuffed once escorted into a cell. He rubs at the skin on his wrist bone and slumps against the wall. Shoupe is somewhere nearby – he wasn’t the one to bring him in, but he’s Sheriff now. Maybe.

“Not seen you in a while, Maybank,” he comments from the doorway.

JJ stretches out his arms and hands. Tilts his head from side to side. “Been out the country.”

“Ah,” Shoupe nods. “That’ll be it.”

He gets a phone call. Could probably make two. It’s between two people in the entire world, and he can’t deal with Pope’s despair right now.

“Is this rock bottom?” John B asks as he has to sign some bond papers. JJ pushes his recently returned hat onto his hair; returns the rings to his fingers. Especially the wrought iron one from Greece.

“Buddy, this ain’t even close.”

Pope’s come anyway. He’s shotgun in the van when JJ and John B emerge from the station. The sun’s set and JJ can barely see in the gloom. Goosebumps pebble his bare arms.

“Don’t,” he pre-empts as he slides into the back of the van. Slumps to the floor because there still aren’t any actively functional seats. John B has a habit of keeping things exactly the same as though staving off the future.

Pope doesn’t, as requested. He does keep peering over the back of the faded headrest. “You’ve all punched some randomers,” JJ protests. “Law of the Cut and all that.”

“When we were like, sixteen, maybe.”

“Yeah, I get it. You’re all great human beings. I’m the fuck up. Let’s go. Being this close to a station makes Maybanks break out in hives.”

John B twists the ignition so the van rumbles to life. JJ tips his hat over his face, crosses his arms across his chest.

“You’re not a fuck up,” John B says from the front.

“You do do fucked up things,” Pope confirms. “But you’re not a fuck up.”

“Excellent. Glad we’ve hashed out that important distinction. Wake me up when we get home.”

*

There are the two kids outside his cousin’s when JJ pulls up in his Jeep. It’s a fleeting visit, so JJ cracks open the door and lets Beelzebub jump out. The dog’s slightly less manic of late; she jumps down, waits for JJ before approaching the door.

It’s cold out, and damp. The younger girl has on too small flip flops. The older one is barefoot and wrapped in a too-big jacket. Stares at JJ defiantly.

“You good?” JJ asks. There’s an itching in his fingers, in the roof of his mouth.

“Dad’s doing business,” the younger girl explains. She has her hands clamped under her armpits.

“Shut up,” the older girl hisses. “You’re not ‘pposed to say.”

“It’s cool.” Beelze has come to rest at his side. “I’m family.”

“So’s Tommy. And he’s a butthole,” the older girl points out.

“Butthole,” the younger girl reiterates sagely.

JJ laughs. The older girl looks pleased, but like she’s trying not to be. JJ ruffles her hair, grinning a little as she ducks out the way with a disapproving scowl.

There’s some scrambling when he knocks on the door of the double-wide. The sound of metal being drawn back. Then the door’s unlocked and swings open. Oscar squints into the light of the day, but slaps his hand against JJ’s palm.

“It’s cold out,” JJ points out as he and his dog enter. It’s unnaturally warm inside and the air is stale. Tinged with days old sweat and something acrid.

“They can run around. Gotta get their exercise somehow.” Oscar glances outside briefly before shutting and bolting the door. “They’ve got jackets.” The man chucks Beelze under the chin before returning to the table which has been pushed against the flimsy wall of the kitchen area. There are pills and baggies scattered all across the tabletop. “Same again?”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Oscar.”

“It’s cool, it’s cool. What’re family for.”

JJ leaves with a few baggies in his pocket and a pre-rolled joint behind his ear. The younger girl giggles as Beelze presses her damp nose into her palm. The older girl sits on the porch and watches.

“See you soon,” JJ calls to the pair.

The older girl’s eyes don’t leave his rear-view mirror as he drives away.

*

Luke Maybank’s medical appointments are frequent, and JJ drives him to each one. The Jeep has a newly fixed taillight and Beelzebub is affixed to the belt in the backseat with some fancy harness contraption. JJ cracks a singular window because the variable wind pressure and ensuing assault on their eardrums really pisses his dad off.

Luke’s got wind of JJ’s short stint at the precinct. He laughs and says, “did you get the second cell in? That’s the usual one. May as well put our mailbox outside. Some people in this life have second homes in desirable locations – us Maybanks, we get a Government funded vacation.”

“Shut the fuck up, dad,” the words are quiet, tired. He doesn’t see his dad’s hand until it’s connected with the back of his head. Doesn’t see anything but the steering wheel as his nose collides with it. His dad’s hand is firm on the back of his skull. Holds him there, his face to the wheel. The Jeep’s stalled from the lack of acceleration and JJ’s cried out in shock, in surprise, his hands clenched tightly. His dog barks from the backseat, straining against her harness.

“Get that animal to shut up before I make it permanent,” Luke snarls. His hand leaves his son’s head and JJ says, “shh, shhh, Bee, I’m fine, it’s okay,” even though he can taste blood and feel it on his face. He doesn’t want to touch his nose because his dad’s always taken that as some personal insult and he’ll sneer or lash out again.

JJ twists his hand into his dog’s fur and says, “shh, shh, it’s okay,” because her whining is hurting his still ringing ears. His pulse hasn’t returned to normal and he has to twist far too close to his dad for this to be a comfortable manoeuvre – but he focusses on his dog. Finally, she quietens down and licks at his wrist. JJ slowly turns back around.

“We’re gonna be late if you don’t get a fuckin’ move on,” Luke berates. Then he closes his eyes and says, “don’t you dare talk to me like that again, boy. You’re getting above your station. Show some goddamn respect.”

They drive in silence and Luke gets out the Jeep with a groan once they pull into the parking lot. The nurses know JJ by now; he follows ten minutes later with some story about how his dog jumped up and headbutted him. The blood is too dark and congealed for the story to fit, but weariness has settled firmly in his mind and his bones and makes him less inclined to care about what people believe.

He wipes the blood away with a sodden mass of toilet paper. Then he sits in his Jeep and calls his cousin.

*

The thing about bruises is they always get worse before they get better.

JJ quickly readjusts to breathing through his mouth due to his swollen nose; quickly readjusts to being extra careful when pulling t-shirts or sweaters over his head so they don’t catch on it.

He doesn’t think it’s broken, this time. There’s a laceration right on the bridge of his nose which becomes clearer as the swelling eases. Some bruising around his right eyes socket too. But it’s still as straight as it was before it became acquainted with his own steering wheel.

It’s just his luck that he bumps into Yvonne at the gas station. He’s purchasing a packet of Marlboro because he wants to treat himself to not having to roll something for once in his life. Usually Yvonne and Pope stick to Heyward’s store. Usually Heyward deals with gas; usually he’s on shift during the day.

But a voice still says, “JJ Maybank, those things won’t do you no good,” in a fondly berating way.

The cashier meets JJ’s gaze and suddenly the anonymity is gone from the transaction. Now he’s that Maybank kid. Now he’s that Maybank kid with a busted nose and a guilty look.

The scanner beeps once. The cashier reads out his total whilst eyeing him warily. JJ inserts his card into the reader and curses the creator of chip and pin.

“I didn’t see your death trap bike outside – have you finally upgraded? Pope’s always said you loved that bike. Loved the adventure, apparently. I never understood it myself – oh, honey. Oh, sweetheart. Whatever happened to your face?”

The kaleidoscope of colours bruises go through is a sight to behold. JJ’s currently in the most attractive yellowing and purple-ish stage. His left nostril whistles if he breathes heavily through it.

“Mrs Heyward.”

“Yvonne,” the woman corrects reflexively. She’s squinting up at him, her hand to her own nose in empathy. “JJ.”

“My damn dog,” JJ breezes. He slips the packet of cigarettes into his pocket and pops his hip; the facsimile of ease. “Just jumped right up – she’s got a thick skull. Though they do say dogs take after their owners.”

“Looks real painful.”

“It’s not so bad. Pain is beauty, right?”

Yvonne keeps on squinting up at him. The cashier clears his throat despite the otherwise empty shop and non-existent line. Yvonne glances briefly around JJ, then looks back.

“You should come around. Heard you like my cooking. Tomorrow?”

“Maybe. I’ll see if the schedule allows.”

Yvonne looks like she has a rebuttal all lined up behind her teeth. Settles for patting him on the elbow instead as he slowly sidles around her. Her hand lingers, fingertips pressing into the material of his sweatshirt. “Don’t be a stranger, JJ. Take care.”

*

It’s the lack of intimacy that needles him the most. Not the lack of sex.

Sex would be easy. He goes to parties and he sits and girls approach him – that’s easy. But he’s disinterested enough that they eventually drift away because apparently, they’re now of the age that he would have to do more than look pretty and exude an air of nonchalance.

It’s the intimacy. It’s the weight of someone’s body and the trust – the shared breaths and laughs and familiarity. It’s someone thinking of what to eat for dinner. Someone packing leftover into Tupperware for lunch the next day. Someone leaving the kitchen light on when his shift overruns and he’s late back.

It’s that he takes an unreasonable amount of pictures of Beelzebub doing Beelzebub things and even John B and Pope are beyond feigning interest in the fourteenth up the nose shot as the dog runs towards the camera.

It’s that no one in the building can look at him and realise he wants to exist anywhere but on this couch in some vague acquaintance’s home. No one’s asking him to split. No one’s asking whether he wants to steal some booze and head to the beach even though it’s cold out.

Still, things work until they really don’t.

Then it’s John B saying frantically, “I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do,” and JJ’s being dragged backwards whilst something wet touches his forehead and cheek and chin. Then there’s cool tiles beneath his palms and elbows and he can touch his chin to the toilet seat and breath in the bleach tinged air.

There’s a tinny voice through a speaker which reverberates off the tiles. JJ reaches for it with one hand, tries to stab the end button. John B kicks it out of reach with a muffled curse. The tap’s running and there’s just a lot going on. A lot of noise and nausea and John B, his hand on JJ’s chin, or his shoulder, or scraping his hair out of his eyes.

“JJ,” his friend slowly eases into focus. Then out again when JJ blinks. “JJ – what you take? JJ, bro, look at me. What have you taken? Pope needs to know.”

JJ’s pretty sure it’s Xanax or some equivalent. They come in clear plastic bags and Oscar says “man, you just need to chill out,” authoritatively before handing them over. JJ’s pretty sure they’re not opiate based but it’s not like he’s checked.

“JJ.” John B’s hand curls around the back of his neck. JJ allows himself to push his skull into his friend’s touch; allows Jon B’s thumb to press below his ear. “I don’t know, dude – they’re like little squished circles – yeah, ovals, oh okay. It says 0.25. Okay, yeah. Yeah, he smells like booze. No vomit.”

Which is the precise moment JJ’s stomach lurches beyond repair and he moves with speed defying his current state towards the toilet. The world is kind of fuzzy and John B’s there, his hand on JJ’s shoulder, on his back. Rubbing lines and circles and speaking to the phone and JJ. 

“There’s vomit,” JJ mumbles as he wipes his hand across his mouth. His hand falls limply to his lap and John B catches him before his head can crack against the tiles as he slumps to the side.

“Vomit,” John B confirms. The words from the phone speaker are tinny, but JJ thinks he hears the tail end of the sentence.

“No,” he snaps. Drops his hands from his face to emphasise his point. “No. No hospital.”

“JJ-”

“No. ‘m fine.”

“JJ…”

“No.”

“Fuck. Pope – yeah. Okay.” John B’s at war with himself, chewing his lip and pulling at the ends of his hair like he always does when he’s really, really thinking. “Okay. Fine. Pope says if you throw up more and stay conscious then maybe we can avoid it. Can you tell me how many you’ve taken? Is it more than five?”

JJ hugs his arms around his legs. His chin knocks into his knees with the force of his shivering. “You can go.”

“Just fucking talk to me, JJ. How many? How much have you drunk?”

It sounds too much like his brain when he used to come home and he’d try to count how many newly empty cans there were littered around his father. Above ten, he was in trouble. Above twenty and Luke would be too slow to do anything.

“I won’t hurt you.”

“Bro – I never thought you would. Never. Now just talk to me ‘cause me and Pope are gonna be real pissed if you die.”

“’m not gonna die.”

“Did you want to? Do you want to?”

It’s too much. Words don’t even get stuck in his throat; they just plain do not emerge.

He stops throwing up after an indeterminable amount of time. John B pulls the covers from the bed and folds them around him to try and help with the shivering. Mostly his friend plays Tetris and keeps shaking JJ awake when he tries to sleep. Occasionally asks questions with easy answers.

Eventually he’s allowed to get into bed and John B flops down beside him. He says, “you stink,” but very quietly, because they’ve both turned their heads so they’re facing each other. JJ’s gaze is more amenable to focussing now; he can see the intense hazel of John B’s eyes. His fading blonde tipped hair.

“I just didn’t want to think,” JJ admits. He has to do it with his eyes closed. Opens them slowly to see John B staring at him, his lips parted. “Just for a bit. Not forever. I just wanted it all to pause.”

John B’s let his dog into the room. Beelzebub climbs under the covers and presses her damp nose into the crook of JJ’s elbow. Presses closer into his side when he shivers again.

“Life would be very boring without you in it. No, seriously. I know we don’t do – I know we – I fucking love you, JJ. I love you. Okay? I do. Pope does, too. So you’ve gotta – you’ve just gotta keep on, okay? Because nothing is permanent and this is gonna pass and you’re gonna be hitting up the surf and fishing and we’re gonna get to twenty-five and buy everything we’ve ever wanted.”

“Dude,” JJ says mostly into his pillow. “No need to pull the charm offensive. You’ve already got me in bed.”

“Like I find you hot in your current condition. Maybe with less sweat dreads and less teeth chattering.” His tone is light, almost playful. But when JJ cracks his eyes open, he can see the tension around John B’s mouth. Can see the dry skin from where he’s been chewing his lip. John B sees his eyes opening and smiles in a way which is more of a grimace of concern.

“Sarah’s a fucking moron,” JJ assesses quietly. And then he falls asleep with his dog at his stomach and his friend by his side.

*

JJ has always been a big believer that it’s better the devil you know. It’s better that he stayed with Luke Maybank because he knew how and why his dad would swing first. It’s better that he stayed on the Cut because he could sleep outside in the summer and work down at the docks without too many questions.

Nine-year-old JJ went into a foster home and decided that it would be the last time. He was taken to the mainland because his mom upped and left and they couldn’t find his dad. The house smelt like polish and mould, which seemed paradoxical even to him. His foster carer demanded that she was to be addressed as Auntie. There’d been some greyish lumpy mush masquerading as meatloaf served for dinner. He was told to sit at a table and stop fidgeting. Told to eat all his peas and not to move until he’d finished them all. Nine-year-old JJ hated peas beyond compare. Hated their sweet sourness and their mushy texture.

Nine-year-old JJ had sat at the table for two hours. Until his other foster carer came home and unbuckled his belt and raised it above his head.

His dad might leave him sometimes. Might push him away. But he’d never used a belt. Never made him eat peas. So it was an easy choice, from there on in.

Years later – when Luke Maybank went further than a belt; when Luke utilised fists and boots and doled out violence like a soccer mom may dole out orange slices – when that became the norm - there was too much else at stake. There was John B, with his missing father. Pope with his overwhelming anxiety and craving for normality. Kiara, who could change his day with one look or joke or laugh.

So although a double wide with pills scattered across the tabletop and something more locked in the cupboards is not an ideal situation, it’s still a known situation. The two girls still have clothes on their back and a bed at night. They have food on the table.

They also have a father who has bruises in the crook of his elbow. “It’s like an orgasm, but times twenty. It’s the best fucking feeling in the world.”

“It’s fucking heroin, Oscar. Not sex.”

“It’s better than the best sex you’ll ever have in your life. Honestly. Everything else just fades away. Kapoof.” His hand moves to emphasise his point.

Oscar has bruises on his arm and bruise like shadows beneath his eyes. His hair is lank, falling around his face. Gone are the easy movements. His every motion is snatched, harried. His gaze jerks towards the door. He sniffs once, twice, wipes at his nostrils.

JJ’s hands tremble as he fists them. He wants to reach out and take it. He wants the inner peace of twenty orgasms. He wants sensations and something to scratch the itch in his mind.

“Nah, man, nah.” His hip hits the table as he backs away, shaking his head. “Oscar, man. This is too much.”

“Suit yourself.” The shrug is just an upward jerk of one shoulder. JJ is dismissed as Oscar turns around, fingers skating over things unknown. “I’ll be here when you change your mind.”

The door slams shut behind him as JJ stomps down the front steps. The air is warmer now. Tinged with the sea salted promise of Spring and warmth and sun that will finally warm the island’s bones.

There’s a squealing of childlike wonder, and a bark. The two girls are crowded around the passenger side of his Jeep. The older has the younger on her hip – is boosting her so she can stick her fingers through the crack in the window. Beelzebub’s whole body wags with joy as she licks the proffered digits.

The girls are both dark with what JJ used to think was the sun. Now he looks again, he thinks it may just be dirt. They’re both barefoot now. Mud has found its way between their toes; under their fingernails.

They’re wearing jackets and ratty sweaters. The eldest keeps glancing back towards the double wide over her shoulder. Keeps her hands locked firmly around her sister’s waist. Keeps her gaze steady on JJ as he approaches.

“Is he high?” she asks bluntly. Her sister continues to giggle as his dog laps at her hand. JJ pauses, his trembling hands still in his cargo short pockets.

The girl’s scrutinising his face for an answer. “Not yet.”

The girl sighs, readjusts her grip on her sister. Her arms tremble with the weight but she doesn’t make any move to put her down or complain.

JJ’s hands clench and unclench. His mind jams. “Does he – does he, uh,” the words balk in his throat. JJ licks his lips, frowns. Tries again. “Does he – uh – hurt you?”

The girl’s laugh is loud. There’s a flash of blackness in a couple of teeth before she shuts her mouth into the permanent solemn expression. “No. He’d have to come near me to do that.”

It’s not like he’s good with children’s ages. He remembers this girl as a baby in a stroller. Her mom used to push her around downtown Kildare and park her up outside stores. Used to leave her in the yard when she screamed. Kids on the Cut go one of two ways: either they scream for the attention, or stop because of the lack of it.

JJ has a box of granola bars in the glove compartment from back when Kiara used to insist he ate a semblance of breakfast. Beelzebub jumps down when he opens the door and immediately starts lapping up attention from the younger girl. The older one stands ten yards away and stares out across the yard. Tries not to look from the corner of her eye as he peels back the wrapper and starts eating. He leans back against the Jeep’s hood and squints into the sun.

“Going to be a fine day,” he comments idly between chews. The girl scuffs her toe into the dirt. Looks out the corner of her eye again. JJ determinedly doesn’t look directly at her. Watches as Beelzebub gallops around the yard after the younger girl who squeals as she runs. “Hey, you want one? I get them free from work.”

JJ tosses the two bars in her direction. They both watch as they fall to the ground. Shrugging, JJ pushes off the Jeep. Whistles for his dog. She jumps into the Jeep easily. The younger girl collides with her sister’s leg, who curves an arm around her shoulders.

He glances back once as he’s pulling away to see them picking up the bars and brushing the dirt off the wrappers. Sees the older handing her sister hers.

*

Pope is around almost every weekend. It’s a fact that JJ’s commented on before and Dae overheard. He’d snorted something like, “wonder why,” and played dumb when JJ asked what the fuck he was talking about.

Pope and John B are sitting on the boat launch of the Chateau with their feet in the water and frowns on their faces. JJ’s boots clatter along the wood as he approaches. Both men look to him.

“Yo,” John B greets.

“JJ.”

JJ throws himself down beside them, although keeps a whole person’s width between him and John B. Squints out across the water. Sits quietly for a while.

“You good?” John B breaks the silence.

“Yeah, good. Fine. Never been better.” JJ stops, sits a little more. “I think I’ve hit rock bottom.”

Pope says, “duh,” and John B asks “why?”

“I was offered heroin and it sounded like a real good idea at the time.”

The men process the information. John B’s voice is gentle when he asks, “but did you take it?”

JJ shakes his head. Knocks his booted foot against the jetty. “Nah. Figured that if even my old man steers clear of it, it would be a bad idea.”

“Okay.” They all sit and contemplate. “What next?”

JJ shrugs. “Fucked if I know. Get my shit together somehow, probably. Probably try and not do heroin. That’s the bar right now.”

“There’s an outpatient programme over on the mainland. It can be anonymous.” John B and JJ swivel to look at Pope in surprise. Pope shrugs. “Figured we’d get here eventually.”

“And you didn’t mention this before because…?” John B trails off.

“As if he’d attend something because someone else suggested it.”

“Fuck you.” It’s without heat and JJ studiously ignores John B as he inches closer. “I’m a goddamn delight. I take constructive criticism.”

“Uh-huh,” John B hums disbelieving. “Smart, Pope.”

“Well, one of us has gotta have custody of our senses.”

John B’s shuffled over enough that he can press his shoulder into JJ’s. Sometimes, JJ thinks it’s a curse to be so known and seen and understood. Other times he realises why he fought so hard to stay on Kildare.

“Rock bottom’s a good place to build foundations,” John B tells him wisely.

JJ and Pope chorus, “shut up, John B,” in unison.

*

JJ’s phone rings at half past seven on Saturday evening. John B’s in the shower and is singing some ballad extremely badly. Beelzebub keeps threatening to join in with a high-pitched howl. JJ keeps trembling because apparently he’s experiencing withdrawal of several types. Pope keeps telling him that cold turkey is a bad idea, but John B made slicing motions across his throat and they both mostly just seem relieved that JJ’s seriously considering some form of sobriety.

He stares for a long moment at the lit-up screen. The goat contact picture taunts him in it’s vibrancy. Then he picks it up before he can think too hard.

“JJ?” It’s across however many thousand miles and bounced between however many transmitter stations, but it’s undoubtedly Kiara. JJ could pick her voice out of a crowded room. Could tell it’s her by the sound of her footsteps on the stairs; could pick her out in a crowded ocean from the way she swims.

JJ can hear John B leaving the bathroom and clattering about upstairs in his usual post shower ritual which incorporates an inordinate amount of grooming products.

“JJ?” her voice is quiet. “Don’t fuck with me.”

JJ knows John B is only here because they really don’t want him to go backwards. Even Yvonne has dropped around in some gap between John B and Pope, bringing a Tupperware of stew with her. She’d passed a hand over his hair and made small talk until John B clattered through the door an hour later. JJ knows John B is currently a jumped-up babysitter and Pope rings for regular updates.

“Hi, Kie.”

“JJ.” It’s a soft exhalation, an exaltation. “For one second I thought – shit – I thought maybe someone was calling about you. Fuck. JJ.”

“Still alive and kicking.”

“JJ.”

He waits for the follow up, but nothing comes. Just Kiara’s breathing down the phone. It hitches, and she gasps in a muffled way. Sniffs loudly.

“I miss you,” he says quietly, detachedly. “Still.”

“Shit. JJ – I keep expecting you to be there. I can’t look at a goat or do any form of exercise without thinking of you. I can’t plan my day without thinking whether your ADHD ass can cope with it. I can’t go in the sea or think about the jungle or empty my mind on a goddamn yoga retreat. Nowhere – nowhere feels like home. I keep trying.”

For an individual who speaks an unnecessary amount, he’s no good with words.

“Come here,” he says eventually, once the silence has moved beyond acceptable. “I know Beelzebub at least would be happy to see you.”

“Are you good?”

His hands are still trembling and he sleeps too much. “Not really. But better, maybe. Kinda.”

Kiara laughs and it’s just like his mind has memorialised. Maybe better. “I am so fucking pissed at you, Maybank. And so fucking relieved.”

“I figure you’ve got good reason. Have to join the queue, though.”

Kiara hums. “Probably. You’re adept at pissing people off.”

“Don’t need to go to college to learn these special skills.”

Kiara hum-sighs again. Pauses uncertainly. “I might come home. In a few weeks. A month, maybe.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re an easy pull, Carrera.”

“You know it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> firstly, i am SORRY that this took so long. i got a promotion at work and have been flat out ever since 
> 
> secondly - i am also sorry that once again jj's voice is dragging us all down. this is mostly inspired by an interview with the writer who envisioned that jj would struggle with big changes etc and most likely mimic what he sees at home. i promise that from here on out, there will be copious amount of making up and fluff and the good stuff 
> 
> thirdly - there are some pretty heavy themes in this chapter. if you ever need help there is always some out there. never be afraid to reach out because the world is a better place just by pure chance of your existence 
> 
> as always, comments and kudos are like crack, and i thank you all so much <3 especially the jiara gc who with word sprints managed to get this chapter finished


	5. four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (anon whose birthday it was - this one's for you!!)

The road to recovery shall never run smooth. Or at least, that’s what John B would say. He’d also scatter the fridge magnets spelling out _forty one_ and write _forty two_ after a brief hesitation. Look over his shoulder with his lips pulled into that near frantic grin and say _hey, what’s a few beers between friends?_

It’s the tenth beer that’s passed JJ’s lips since he decided this whole sobriety thing. He figured he could permit himself one vice, out of them all. It’s the sixth tonight. Pope would disagree with his logic, but it’s often more worrying when Pope agrees with his logic.

John B’s off on some half-concocted date and it’s mid-week, so Pope’s still at college. Heading over to Oscar’s is one temptation too far – so instead JJ has a six pack to keep him company.

At least, Pope’s supposed to be at college. But Seaview’s porch door bangs open and Beelzebub flicks an ear before trotting over to the newcomer. That means it’s supposed to be someone she knows but the dog is generally the worst guard dog ever. She lets people wander in the back yard or up the drive without flickering a hair, but loses her shit over a squirrel in a tree half a block away.

“You’re wearing deck shoes,” JJ points out idly. Squints closer at Pope’s soft as butter leather clad feet. “Pink deck shoes.”

“You’re drinking.” Pope’s gaze flickers quickly around the kitchen. “Just drinking?”

“I’m allowed one vice, Pope-”

“I thought that was gonna be weed-”

JJ scoffs. Sips from his bottle. “Weed isn’t a vice. It’s an experience.”

“You’re supposed to be sober-”

“Of the hard stuff.” JJ quirks an eyebrow. Leans back in his chair and kicks his booted feet up onto the kitchen table just to piss Pope off. It works, because his friend scowls at the bottom of his shoes. Crosses the room to lean on the back of the kitchen chair opposite.

“How many have you even had?”

“This is the last one, _mom_.”

“Sorry for caring if you live or die.”

“Drama does not suit you, sweetheart.”

“I’m just saying-” Pope’s voice is tinged with frustration. He catches himself; licks his lips, frowns. “It’s a slippery slope. You’re doing great. I don’t want to see you fuck it up.”

“Not mom. Dad,” JJ decides firmly. Pulls a cigarette from behind his ear. “Papa – is that you?”

“You’re a little shit,” Pope accuses mildly. “Tea?”

They end up drinking tea on the porch, despite it not being warm enough to justify being outside in just t-shirts. Steam curls off the top of their mugs and it’s an easy, contented feeling. Their arms press together and Beelzebub runs around the back yard in a mass of tangled beige coloured fur.

“I really appreciate you.” It’s said to the sky as JJ tilts his head back to blow smoke towards the stars.

“Huh?”

“You heard.”

“I love you too, you dumbass.” JJ thinks there’s a smile in Pope’s voice but doesn’t look to confirm the suspicion. His hand taps a rhythm on the edge of the porch.

“Even when I do dumb shit?”

“Adds some variety to proceedings, it has to be said.”

Once upon a time JJ laid on his back near the remnants of a chicken coop with a girl promising she wouldn’t leave. Now he leans his head on Pope’s shoulder. Rests a hand on the crook of his friend’s elbow. There’s something to be said for the way Pope permits it. How he shifts so his shoulder’s slanted for easier access.

“You get under people’s skin,” Pope appraises, his voice a quiet mumble. “Like syphilis or something.”

“Aw, thanks bud,” JJ croons. Takes a drag of his cigarette. “You’ve got such a sweet mouth.”

“Anything for you, darling.” The silence is without expectation or awkwardness. “Kie is-”

“It’s cool, chief. All good.” Pope’s responding hum is disbelieving, but he lets it drop with grace he rarely extends to JJ. “How’s school?”

The responding shrug almost dislodges JJ’s head from its perch. JJ pushes his nose into Pope’s shoulder in protest. “Fine.”

“Achieving your dreams is just fine now, is it?”

“It’s good. Purposeful. Just – different. Hard.”

“Turns out life ain’t all peachy, even if you have shit tons of money.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

JJ closes his eyes. Pope sips from his mug. The moon softens the two of them to shadowed figurines.

*

The girls are scuffing their sneaker clad feet outside Heyward’s and the man’s squatting down, offering something out to them.

They’re too young to be out alone, really. But the Outer Banks has never adhered to societal norms. Still has the big village mentality. Everyone else keeping one weathered eye out for the younger generations.

Heyward offers them a packet of something and the older girl looks over his head. Squints to the sky and sucks her teeth and remains silent. Heyward shrugs in a suit yourself way. Places the packet on the closed industrial dumpster five feet away.

The older girl grabs it when Heyward’s been in the store for two whole minutes and JJ sees this whole exchange from across the road and something sticks in his throat or his nose and it tastes bitter and he thinks he might vomit, right there on the sidewalk –

Instead he swallows and keeps going to the pet store for a refill of those organic home grown home baked home whatever the fuck dog treats.

*

JJ stubs his foot on a rock whilst surfing and actually screams.

Pope’s on the shore and John B is in the water. Both snap to attention with alarming speed. John B shouts, “JJ – what – shark? Is it a shark? Jellyfish? Rip? JJ? Shark? Shark?”

Pope shades his eyes from the sun and squints out to sea. He’s jogged so he’s deep in the shallows, waves swelling gently around his kneecaps.

“My foot,” JJ grits out between his teeth. “I’m good, I’m good.”

“Urchin?” John B has paddled over. “Pope’s real good at digging them out.”

“Nah – just hit my toe.”

“Your toe?”

“Yeah. Y’know, those things on the end of your feet.”

“You’ve hit your toe?”

Half an hour later, JJ’s lying on the pull out of the Chateau with one hand over his face.

“What do you think, doc?” John B asks. “Any requirement for amputation?”

“It’s an ingrown toenail.”

“Could progress into sepsis,” John B points out. Squats and squints at the offending toe. “It looks real angry.”

Pope thankfully swats John B’s hand just as he reaches out and pinches JJ’s big toe. JJ hisses “motherfucker,” between clamped lips, as Pope squats down to assess the situation at close quarters.

“Have you ever been to a podiatrist?” Pope chastises.

“I’m like, twenty four,” JJ reminds him.

“Podiatrist. Foot doctor. Not kid doctor.”

“Potato, potato. Feet, kids. Same difference.”

“I mean, they’re pretty different. JB – got any pliers?”

“Pliers?” JJ sits up abruptly. “What’s this, a torture chamber?”

“I need to pull it out to cut it,” Pope explains patiently. “If you got a pedicure once in a while, this wouldn’t be necessary.” John B shouts in victory from the kitchen. JJ drops back to the couch and scowls at the ceiling,

“You have hairy toes,” John B informs JJ politely as he drops a pair of gummed together pliers into Pope’s outstretched hand.

“Says you,” JJ scoffs. “You have the feet of a Hobbit.”

“Insulation,” John B tells JJ primly. Then to Pope, “I only have clippers, not scissors. You’ll have to use kitchen scissors.”

“Whatever’s fine.” Pope collapses onto the couch and pulls JJ’s bare feet onto his lap. Sticks the pliers under the nail. JJ grinds his teeth loudly. “This is like, super imbedded. Good job, JJ.”

“Your nail is supposed to be on your toe,” JJ complains petulantly through half of his mouth.

“On, not in.” Pope digs the edge of the extremely wide bladed scissors under something and JJ hisses out slowly.

“It grows out your toe. Out, in. Same thing.”

John B peers over Pope’s shoulder in morbid fascination. It hurts – really hurts. More than a stub of the toe, more than when he steps on a sea urchin and Pope has to pick the spines out one by one.

“It’s just a little infected.” Pope’s tone has slid straight into cool professional. JJ throws John B a snatched look but his friend is still watching proceedings intently.

John B says, “oh, gross,” in delight, and then Pope pokes something which pops.

There’s perhaps something slightly sinister in the way JJ can internalise pain. The way he can focus on the ceiling and detach. Pope and John B chat quietly between themselves. At one particular point JJ hisses and yanks his foot away from Pope. Pope’s hand rests gently on his ankle, his grip loose but persistent. They both wait until JJ relaxes his hamstrings. Distantly, JJ can hear Beelzebub barking at something on the driveway.

“You good?” John B checks quietly.

Pope resumes after JJ ducks his chin in a brief nod.

The porch door opens just as John B says, “is that supposed to be green?” and Pope makes some sort of squeezing motion on JJ’s toe like it’s a tiny cow.

“What’s going on?” asks a voice which sounds distinctly like Kiara Carrera.

JJ kicks Pope in the stomach in his haste – the scissors jerk and narrowly miss stabbing the skin of his foot arch. Pope gasps at the assault. Everyone’s head jerks towards the door with a speed to rival Beelzebub when chicken makes it’s way off a plate.

“Good afternoon, boys,” says a voice which sounds distinctly like Sarah Cameron. A Sarah Cameron who’d recently watched Grease and was taking projection tips from Olivia Newton John. (Kiara had made him watch it every day for a week when they were twelve – he’s basically fluent in Grease vernacular).

John B makes a noise which sounds distinctly like a startled fieldmouse. “Sarah,” he squeaks. Stands up from where he’s squatting. Bumps his hip on the corner of the couch and rebounds a few steps backwards. “Hi. Hello. Hey.”

Pope still has his hand curved around JJ’s ankle and now, with Kiara and Sarah in the suddenly too-small room, the action feels protective.

Beelzebub follows the girls into the room, leaping with excitement. She bounds over to JJ who says, “ah-ah,” and points one finger. The dog skids to a stop, then squats in a quasi-sit, tail sweeping over the faded wooden boards of the floor. JJ takes a biscuit from his pocket (because he’s the kind of guy that always carries dog treats now) and tosses it her way.

“You trained our dog.” Sarah and John B are engaged in some intense conversation that only involves eyes and the merest movement of lips. It leaves Kiara, looking between JJ and the dog with a gaze he can’t quite place.

“Well, someone had to.” It’s intended to be a quip; light. But Pope’s thumb digs briefly into his anklebone and when he looks – his friend is not quite scowling at Kiara, but it’s close.

“You could’ve called.” The words are measured and even, but from Pope it sounds like a rebuke. Kiara finally breaks away from staring at JJ all over. (Briefly, he wishes he had worn something other than the worn sweatshirt and faded cargo shorts – but it’s not like he had much forewarning of this meeting.)

“We did. Like, a billion times. Besides, you knew we were due – it’s not completely out the blue.”

JJ recognises this travel weary, travel sharpened Kiara. She needs a touch to her hair or the nape of her neck to ground her; needs a drink and twelve hours sleep. All he can do now is blink at these realisations. Slide his phone out of his pocket – he has twelve missed calls, and a text of THE REASON IT’S CALLED MOBILE IS SO U CAN USE IT WHEN UR MOBILE.

Pope’s turned his scowl back to JJ’s foot. “Just wash this in saline solution – saltwater – for a couple of days, to draw out infection. Best to leave it uncovered as much as possible. And for God’s sake, cut it properly from now on.”

JJ retracts his foot from Pope’s lap. Knocks his knuckles into his shoulder. “Thanks, buddy. What would we do without you?”

“Die, probably.”

“Sea urchin?” Kiara’s brow crumples in sympathy.

JJ flicks Pope a look, waiting for the explanation. It doesn’t come. Pope’s pulled his phone from the side of the couch and is looking at some messages in what JJ thinks is a purposefully detached way.

“Gunky nail,” JJ explains breezily in lieu of an answer. He stands from the couch and Kiara blinks at the movement. Tips her chin to look up at him. His hands tremble so he tucks his thumbs into his back pockets. Anticipating his next movement, Beelzebub watches him hopefully.

“Sexy.”

JJ wonders whether the dichotomy between how Sarah and Kiara are acting and the situation is as tangible as he thinks it is. His throat itches and his hands still refuse to steady.

“Dad wants me back,” Pope stands abruptly. Presses a hand to JJ’s shoulder as he passes, fingers splayed on the worn sweatshirt. “I’ll see you around, okay? Sarah. Kiara.” He nods at them as he passes. JJ watches him go and resists the temptation to also beat a hasty retreat.

Or maybe he succumbs.

“Bee needs a walk,” he says to the room because he can’t quite meet Kiara’s eyes even though he knows she’s staring at him. “She’s probably gotta pee.”

Sarah and John B are still doing the weird eye thing.

“I’ll come,” Kiara blurts quickly, and she’s checking her laces and looking at the dog and then around the room as though able to manifest a leash by sheer force of will.

Beelzebub trots ahead down the sidewalk, identity tags jingling softly. Kiara’s two feet away – close enough that he could reach out and tangle their fingers together. Instead, he keeps his hands firmly in his pockets.

“So,” Kiara starts. “How have you been? You look well.”

“Well? Isn’t that what middle-aged women say when they mean you’re double the size from when they last saw you. _Oh, have you seen Maureen recently? She looks… well._ ”

“You look good.”

“Damn right I do. Always do. Nice of you to acknowledge that fact too, baby.” The endearment trips off his tongue before he can stop it. Hangs in the air in a near palpable way.

“How’ve you been?”

Beelzebub stops and glances over her shoulder to ascertain the distance. JJ clucks his tongue lowly to her. Her ear cocks in response. A car speeds past, its tyres swishing on the rain slick road. It rattles as it bumps through a pothole.

“Alright,” he summarises after a moment. “You?”

Another car comes past. Rain starts in the slowest of drizzles. He can’t look at Kiara – can’t face this – just keeps his eyes fixed on his (their) dog.

“I’ve missed you.” It’s honest and raw and enough to almost take his breath away. “It was really hard, actually. Not half as fun or weird or stupid. Don’t have nearly as many good stories. But – I think I’m good now. Ready.”

“Ready.”

“Yeah for – for this. For life. For home.” There’s a silence and JJ doesn’t know how he’s supposed to fill it. If he’s supposed to fill it. “For us. If that’s what you want.”

It is not a question of want. More a question of necessity. But he doesn’t know how to frame that – doesn’t know how to admit it.

“It’s never been a question for me,” he says instead, which is insufficient and wildly lacking.

“JJ,” it’s so soft that he does look at her now. His once-girlfriend with her wide eyes and her travel approved braids. Sincerity practically leaks from her pores. Sincerity and something a lot like pity.

JJ smiles wide instead. “It’s good to see you, Kiara.”

*

It goes like this:

Kiara comes around to pick up some of her things. The (their) house is mostly unchanged from when she left. Maybe a little grubbier around the edges. A few more hair balls under the hard to reach furniture. Maybe under the easier to reach furniture too, if he’s being honest.

He’s post-shower with a pair of sweats low on his hips and a toothbrush in his mouth when she corners into his (their) bedroom with Beelzebub at her side. She stops and stares a little when she sees him. He swears her socked feet even skid a little with the force of her deceleration.

JJ raises a hand in greeting. Spits out toothpaste and rinses his brush.

“You good?” he asks eventually when he exits the bathroom, because Kiara is still just standing and staring.

“Yeah. Yup. All good. Very good,” her voice has shot up an octave or two. “Are they my sweats?”

JJ looks down slowly to the track pants that he’s had to sew the crotch up in twice. _John B_ is faint down one leg, the vinyl letters all peeled off. “…No?”

“Oh. Right.”

JJ raises an eyebrow. There’s a second where Kiara stares at the wall above JJ’s head and JJ stares at her uncomprehendingly.

“Anything in particular you wanted?” JJ prompts. There’s a flicker – Kiara’s eyes on his chest. Kiara’s eyes distinctly lower than his chest.

“I just-” Kiara turns and opens a drawer. Seizes an item of clothing.

And – his brain takes a moment to catch up. Takes a double and a triple take of the scenario in front of him.

“Kiara Carrera,” he starts. He thinks there’s a smile but fights it back. “Are you objectifying me?”

The whole dresser shakes as Kiara’s hip slams into the still open drawer. She glares at the offending object, then at him. “Absolutely not. As if,” she scoffs.

“Sure, sure. Sounds true.”

He looks at her and she looks at him and the whole world is narrowed to this one point.

Until Kiara says, “I’ve got dinner at my parents in ten,” and pulls on the sweatshirt she’s extracted from the drawer. It’s the one the Heyward’s got him for Christmas years ago – the one with his initials stitched into the top corner.

“Okay. Say hi to ma and pops for me.”

The look she gives is familiar. Reproachful, exhausted. Vaguely fond.

“No, really, say hi from me,” he pushes some drawl into his voice. Saunters across the room to sift through his shirts in the closet (which he may or may not have only picked off the floor yesterday but – details).

“You’ve probably seen them more than me, at this point.”

“Kind of inevitable when you fuck off out of state forever.”

She gives him another look. This one’s a lot sadder.

“They still love you.”

“Damn right they do.”

Her tongue touches her teeth and she has that look – that sort of hesitant look that only started creeping in ever since he started getting wasted more than twice a week. The look that never used to be there. “Maybe we could do something?”

“Yeah, sure. Okay.” JJ has to stop an outpouring of words. “Let me know.”

*

Heyward doesn’t even have the decency to look surprised anymore when JJ appears atop the counter in his store; legs swinging, heels drumming against the side. He always rips open a bag of Cheetos. Offers Heyward a handful.

Mostly the man mills around making notes in books. There’s more often than not a shop assistant, but Heyward likes to do two hours in the morning when the only attendees are locals. They trade gossip for newspapers and a packet of Marlboro’s.

Heyward’s not the biggest talker and sometimes it’s nice to sit with no expectations.

“Do you still foster?” JJ asks one murky day. “Or was it a one-time thing? Just couldn’t resist these charms?”

“You’re as charming as a hole in the head,” Heyward grunts. “We’ve not renewed our licence. Yvonne keeps saying we should. I’m not so sure. You and John B were one thing – but you don’t get handed two self sufficient kids with their own house every day of the week. Apparently foster parents are supposed to actually parent.”

JJ hums in consideration. Kicks at the counter again. Both of them jerk their heads to the door as it swings in and three school kids trail in, shooting them surreptitious looks. Two pick up candy and a bag of chips and head to the counter, talking loudly. JJ watches as the third trails behind and drops a nature bar into his pocket.

He looks at Heyward as the boys all leave. “Didn’t realise you were a food bank.”

Heyward ignores him. “What you asking about fostering for, anyway?”

The crunching of Cheetos fills the small store. JJ catches an apple Heyward tosses his way with barely a second glance. The man looks vaguely aggrieved that it didn’t hit his target of JJ’s shoulder. “Just was.”

“Uh-huh.”

Heyward looks increasingly aggrieved as the obnoxious sound of JJ chewing on an apple begins. He makes sure to chew with his mouth open with juice on his chin for maximum impact. Slurps the juice with each bite.

“Motherfucker,” Heyward accuses mildly.

“Incorrect. I would have to actually know my mother for that to be the case.” JJ smiles brightly as Heyward cuts him one of his looks. There’s apple skin between his front teeth.

“What’s eating you up, kid?”

JJ places a hand over his heart. “Is it not enough that I wanted to visit my papa? Father – have you forsaken me so? Tell me it is not true.”

“Maybank.” The sound of thick soled boots drumming against the counter fills the air.

“Oscar’s kids,” JJ admits eventually.

“Ah.”

“The girls.”

“I know them.” Heyward leans a hand against the counter and chews his lower lip thoughtfully. “They’re whippet thin.” JJ makes an acknowledging grunt. Heyward pauses again. “They gotta be reported to DSS before they can be fostered or anything.”

JJ stares at the wall. “Yeah.”

“More than a couple of times before they do anything.”

“Yeah.”

“And probably to the police, too.”

JJ’s back teeth grind together. He tries to make a conscious decision to relax his jaw. “Yeah.”

Heyward looks at him for a long, long time. Eventually looks back down to the cash register. “I’ll see about renewing those licences.”

JJ nods once. Takes a bite of apple.

*

“You don’t have to forgive Kie just ‘cause she came back.” As opener’s go, it’s a solid one.

“Good afternoon to you too.” Pope blocks the sun where he’s stood in the sand above JJ – one hand shaded over his face, eyes all squinted.

“I’m just saying.”

Seawater dries on JJ’s skin, leaving that faint film of salt that should be gross but just feels like home. “You can always say, Pope. Doesn’t mean I’ll listen.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

Their height difference is obliterated as Pope sits in the sand next to him, legs all stretched out. There’s the briskest of breezes but the strongest of suns in the almost-summer’s day that brightens the island’s mood and tempts the tourists across the bridge.

“It’s probably none of my business. But – you just – you forgive a lot of people, a lot of the time. And that doesn’t mean they deserve it.” The words don’t sound like a spur of the moment, nor a fleeting thought.

“Woah, Chief,” JJ injects deflection into his tone. “Let’s not get onboard the psychology boat on this fine day.”

“You have the right to be pissed at her,” Pope bulldozes on. “Fuck – I’m pissed at her. She wasn’t here, JJ. You were-” Now, Pope buries his hands into the sand and looks at the sun. JJ stares at the side of his face. Can feel his jaw setting. “She should have been here. You needed her. Fuck, we needed her.”

“I didn’t pick up a single call or text apart from one, at the beginning. So – I didn’t give her much to come back to.”

“That’s fucked up,” Pope settles on eventually. “From both of you. Kie should have come back. You should have contacted her.”

“Yeah,” JJ agrees. Not that there’s much that can be done about that now, though. And to be fair, he wasn’t exactly a stellar boyfriend when she left – why would she come back for potentially less? "We needed to sort ourselves out.”

“There’s sorting yourself out and there’s being gone for months.”

“Dude,” it’s mild but cautioning.

“I’m just saying. Just – think about it, okay?”

“Some things aren’t as simple as meeting your spouse-to-be at college and living in perfect, doctor harmony.”

“I’ve never said me and Dae are perfect. We’re really, really not. He’s kinda pretentious at times-”

“At times? Just at times?”

“-but we’re working on it, working on us, and it’s a continuous process-”

“Oh, the romance.”

Pope exhales heavily. “JJ – you’re my best friend. I’ve seen you in the past year. Okay, it may not all be directly attributable to Kie, but that doesn’t let her off the hook for going. There were times where I – we – genuinely thought you might not wake up or something. It’s not – it’s not your fault, okay? Just – it was bad.”

“But did anyone tell her that?”

“That’s so not the point. You’re not a dog in doggy day care requiring a report card-”

“-we all know my report card for doggy day care would be fuckin’ A-”

“-you’re supposed to be together or whatever the fuck you are now or were at the time – but the two of you are just embroiled in whatever you’re up to now and you need to remember that she left you, JJ. She went.”

“I remember that just fine thank you, Popie.”

“Are you sure?”

JJ nods slowly, considerately. “You know what, Chief? You’re right.”

Pope’s expression brightens ever so slightly, then falls into suspicion. “I am.”

“You are right. It’s none of your fucking business. Now, did you come here to chew my ass out, or do you wanna get your ass beat in the sea?”

*

It’s more the shock than anything.

The pain is – it’s sharp, and explosive, but it’s the shock. It’s his head snapping to the side and fuck – there’s blood. He can feel the ring that his dad still wears (that wedding band; the one that matches the one on JJ’s pinkie) biting into his cheek –

There’s a follow up punch – aimed at JJ’s nose for maximum impact. This is a no punches pulled encounter. This is Luke Maybank at his most resourceful.

This is JJ fumbling with the car door handle and falling out the car, his right arm curling over his head instinctively. It’s Luke Maybank ripping off his seatbelt and slamming out straight after him.

Maybe JJ’s softened, now. After years of gentle touches and affirmations. Maybe he’s been lulled into a false sense of security with his chemo wearied father.

But this – with Luke’s hand fisted in the front of his shirt and the sun-baked metal of his own truck digging into his back – this is familiar.

There’s a blankness in his father’s face. A hardness. A tick in his jaw; clenching and unclenching of his hands.

It’s a quick one-two right to JJ’s stomach. Then JJ recovers his senses and – he shoves Luke Maybank right back, even though his father’s right in his face. He has a hand on both shoulders and pushes. His lip’s split, he thinks – it hurts when he bites it.

Luke Maybank staggers backwards and reels to a stop. Grins abruptly. “Aw. Has the kid finally become a man?”

JJ’s breathing through ragged lungs. Panting like Beelzebub does after she’s run laps of the back yard. He’s barely exerted himself – barely moved ten paces. Feels like he’s been spat out by a wringer regardless.

“We better get going,” Luke Maybank urges in a complete shift change. His dad looks at his watch, then the car. “We’re cutting it fine as is.”

The burst of laughter is more a chatter of teeth or hysteria. “Fuck that. Fuck you. I’m done. Find your own way there. You can’t just – you don’t just – fuck you.”

JJ’s dismissed, as always. Luke Maybank looks at him for a long moment before going around the front of the truck and climbing back in the passenger side. JJ stays outside, glaring into the middle distance.

“C’mon,” Luke urges loudly. “We gotta get gone.”

“Get out my truck.”

Luke settles back against the seat with a drawn-out sigh. “Sure, kid. C’mon.”

“Get out. My truck.”

“JJ.”

“Get out.” He can’t look at this shell of his father. Fixes his eyes elsewhere as he demands.

“Stop kidding around. I’ve got an appointment.”

JJ spits blood streaked spit on the floor. Reaches in through the still-open door and takes the keys gently from the ignition.

“JJ.” There’s an edge of something other than command or assumption. “You gotta-”

“I gotta what, dad? I gotta what?” Now he has the keys and he has them in his pocket – he can look his dad in the eye. Can try and find what he’s been seeking his whole motherfucking life. Finds not even the barest hint of it.

Luke Maybank is silent. His mouth hangs open ever so slightly. His breath smells of lemondrops because JJ still has a compulsion to buy them every time he passes them in the gas station. Like a one-dollar packet of candy is going to win his father’s affection.

“See you round, dad.” The door clicks shut softly. JJ fists his hands into his shorts and starts walking.

*

“He’s here – guys, he’s here, it’s okay, he’s here-”

This particular corner of the Chateau is old ground. It’s the perfect vantage point to cover all exits – the window, the door. It’s where John B used to sit when it thundered; his hands over his ears, knees to his chest.

JJ mimics that position now. Wonders how much of it is subconscious and how much of it is just to alleviate the panic in his chest.

The Pogues tumble through the door one by one – a tangle of Kiara and Pope and John B. They’re a lot taller than they were as kids – adult size shoes. A whole lot of ambition and wants and needs contained in three adult sized humans.

“’m okay,” it’s mostly to his knees; mostly muffled.

“Yeah, sure, okay,” that’s John B, in typical John B style. Edging forward slowly. “Heyward found your truck – some blood. You’ve got damn near the whole island out looking for you.”

There’s a creak of floorboards as someone moves away. JJ tries to suppress the flinch but adrenaline’s a crafty bastard and still wound tight around his limbs. Distantly, he can hear Pope’s low baritone. “Yeah – we got him. Yeah. Not sure yet. Will do. Okay. Love you too.”

It’s Kiara’s gentle, gentle tone. “Are you hurt?”

Lifting his head and uncurling his hands seems insurmountable. “No.” A shallow breath. “Did you assholes really not think to check here first?”

“Seemed too obvious.” The toe of John B’s worn out converse edges into JJ’s blinkered view. “I thought you had depths, bro. Mystery.”

“You give me too much credit.” The final word clips off shortly. He half wants to scream at them to fuck off, half wants to scream at them to never leave.

“JJ,” it’s tender and soothing. “Let me see.”

There’s barely any reaction when he lifts his head. Pope’s jaw sets a little firmer. Kiara’s mouth presses into a thin line. John B – more used to this situation than most, nods once.

“Not too bad,” John B appraises. “There’s still beauty left in you yet.”

Kiara shoots him an unimpressed look. Softens her gaze when her eyes land on JJ. “Can Pope take a look?”

They all wait until JJ nods his consent. Only then Pope slides to his knees next to him. Only touches him when absolutely necessary and with quick, practiced touches. Assesses his lip and his cheek. JJ keeps his eyes clamped closed.

“Bit my tongue,” JJ confirms. Sticks it out for inspection. “Shee?”

“Mouths heal quick. So the lip won’t take too long. Cheek’s not enough for stitches.”

“Here.” There’s a crinkle of a packet – Kiara’s retreated and returned. Softer, smaller hands replace Pope’s. Cradle his chin and his undamaged cheek with a gentleness that near shatters his heart. Kiara is diligent with what JJ presumes is an antiseptic wipe, judging by the smell and the cool material on his face.

JJ’s breath fills the space in between them. The shack breathes steadily with him.

“What did I do to make him hate me so much?”

“Dude,” John B ventures hesitantly. Kiara’s hand is still on his chin. Her thumb sweeps gently over his jawline.

“It’s cool,” JJ dismisses instantly as the awkwardness increases.

“It’s really not cool.” Kiara’s thumb keeps moving slowly, hesitantly.

JJ’s tempted to wrench his head from her grasp but – it’s a temptation rather than an overwhelming need, so he resists. “Maybe not cool. But – it is what it is.”

Sometimes JJ gets filled with this expanse of just nothingness. An all-consuming void that makes him doubt he will ever have anything but an absence of joy in his life. Previously, these used to be when his dad went too far. It was easier than any of the alternatives.

Sometimes the void shifts and he can’t maintain it. Like now. The concern from his friends is palpable; how they shift their weight on their feet, how they’re content to stand and wait until he recovers or gives them something else other than this blankness he can’t escape.

“JJ,” Kiara says extremely softly. She swipes her thumbs under his eyes carefully. JJ’s next inhalation wavers. “JB – Pope – you wanna go grab takeout?”

“Yeah, sure,” Pope seizes the chance to leave.

“You sure?” John B lingers. “You all good?”

“I’m good – I’m cool – it’s nothing, right?” JJ’s voice is pretty damned strong considering the blockade he has to speak around.

“We’re good.” Sometimes Kiara has a way of speaking with such conviction that JJ’s pretty sure he’d follow her straight into Hell. (He’s pretty sure he’d follow her even without such conviction, but that is by-the-by).

The floorboards protest as Pope and John B leave. JJ remains in the pink tinged darkness of his eyelids. Sniffs a little. “You remember that time when you’d try and crawl into my pants at any sign of emotion? Now would be a good time to kickstart that campaign again.”

Kiara’s lips on his is unexpected. It’s a peck and nothing more; off-centre to miss the recent split. The realisation does not kick in until she’s pulling away, keeping her hand on his chin.

“You have some weird-ass kinks, Carrera.”

“Distraction often works.”

JJ slides his eyes open to consider her. Her gaze is flickering between his eyes, one then the other. Looking at his cheek; his bust lip. He can feel it swelling. Touches it with the tip of his tongue. Her eyes track that movement too.

“Always just a distraction for you, hmm?” the words fade out. This aftermath is the worst. The stage after the immediate buzz. When the anxiety slowly disperses from his limbs and his head becomes heavy.

“This is so not the time, J. C’mon. You need to sleep.”

He can be amenable. He can let his maybe-ex pull him up from the floor and put an arm around her shoulders. He can lean on her and let her guide him into the room that he’s probably slept in more often than he’s slept at home.

She helps wrestle his boots off and that is almost more than he can take. Her finger digs between the laces and the leather of the boots, easing each loop looser. These boots that she bought, those years ago in Italy. Scouring the internet for the exact saome model as the old ones. She relaced them with rainbow laces for Pride in Rio de Janeiro. Has worn them strapped to her backpack because she hated them bumping into her ukulele. Diligently checked them for dog shit whilst navigating the streets of Paris.

Now they’re eased off from heel to toe and placed carefully on the ground. His bones feel like rubber, head slumped to his shoulder.

Thankfully Kiara doesn’t try to wrestle him out of his clothes. Just pulls back the covers and slowly edges him in. He’s pliable, easy. Eyes closed tight before he’s even fell onto the pillow.

He can pay for all the therapy in the world and he can try and talk about his feelings or his past or his guilt or the band in his chest that only ever gets tighter. But – being found by his friends. His hair being brushed gently from his eyes and the weight of a hand on his shoulder. The smooth, slow sweep of a thumb across his wrist. Sometimes, it’s about the humanity of it. It’s about empathy and the act of being so known that it feels impossible to disappear.

He falls asleep.

*

Kiara makes some wry, sarcastic comment at John B’s expense and JJ snorts into his yogurt.

Kiara shoots him a self-satisfied look, her mouth curling up at the edges. It’s the kind of look that has been making him skittish recently. The Chateau has become the middle ground in this emotional warfare. Seaview seems so intimate – still so full of their once entwined lives.

They’re playing the world’s slowest game of cat and mouse because at this point, he’s pretty sure where things are going to end up. Every single interaction with Kiara Carrera is underscored by something big, something omnipresent.

And then JJ Maybank finally gets laid after nine months, sixteen days and four hours. The most intimate touch he’s had in the past nearly-year is his own right hand or the familial affection from Pope and John B which, whilst emotionally nourishing, is not in the same league.

It’s also the first time he’s had sex in Kiara Carrera’s childhood bedroom. He has to consciously not focus on the framed family picture on her bedside table (which, actually, in terms of duration, he’s kinda glad for its placement).

It’s the frantic not overly familiar kind of sex. If he was a conscious self-aware kind of man, he’d garner that he makes it that way because of his current emotional unavailability and vulnerability. As it is, Kiara’s been wearing smaller and smaller bikinis and walking around on ridiculously long legs whilst glancing at him from beneath her eyelashes. Playing with the strap of her bralette. Buying and consuming popsicles from Heyward’s store in a way that is seven shades of sacrilege.

It was kind of inevitable that it was going to happen.

Kiara’s a post coital cuddler. Their skin is clammy and bare and she slots her shoulder under his arm and smiles in a self-satisfied way. JJ tugs at a lock of her hair.

His phone buzzes loudly and persistently on the floor where it landed.

“Don’t you dare,” Kiara mumbles vaguely from her cove.

The phone stops for a second, then starts ringing again. JJ peers over the edge of the bed. _Oscar_ flashes on the call screen.

“JJ,” says a warning voice behind him as he reaches down. “Are you-”

There’s a huff of frustration from the pillow next to what was his. “Yo.”

“JJ?”

“Yeah, yeah. Wassup?”

“Fuck – bro. Fuck. They’ve gone.”

JJ used to plunge his split knuckles into ice cold water just to feel a different kind of pain. This is like plunging his whole body in a bucket. “What?”

“Opal. Cora. Fuck. Can you come?” The words are drawn out and more than a little hazy around the edges.

The phone’s between his chin and his shoulder. “Yeah, yeah. Course. I’ll be there in ten. Just – get some shoes on. And a shirt.”

Kiara’s sat up in bed, one arm pinning the covers to her chest. Watches as he hangs up the phone and sets about pulling on his boxers, shorts and boots. Leaves his shirt until last.

“Hero,” she quips, but it sounds forced. “Want me to come? ‘cause I will.”

“Maybank shit,” JJ dismisses easily. “Probably on the porch or something. I’ll text you all for backup if they’re still missing in an hour.”

The girls are on the porch. Just on the porch of Ms Jenkins where Oscar had dropped them two days prior. Oscar’s nails are chewed right down to their beds, his pupils blown. JJ sends him off in the opposite direction to look. He wanders off vaguely.

Ms Jenkin’s lips are pressed into a thin line as JJ knocks on her screen door. He gets chewed out and nods along to every point. Channels his best inner diplomacy to thank her for her time, to tell her _we really appreciate y’all, don’t we girls?_

The girls do not share the same diplomacy. Once extracted but still in earshot, Cora sighs loudly. “Thank fuck. Her place stinks of dog piss.”

“Yo,” JJ reproaches her.

“It does,” Opal confirms cheerfully. She’s taken JJ’s hand and he is so tempted to shake her free, but the girl’s tiny fingers curl around his thumb and he hasn’t the heart to reject her. “But she does good meatloaf.”

“You only like her because she feeds you mints,” Cora sneers. “Her meatloaf sucks ass.”

Opal swings JJ’s arm between them. His limb follows her movement limply.

“So,” Cora turns on JJ. “Did you notice us gone, or did dad?”

Her eyes are a clear blue and are always inescapable. JJ can’t meet her gaze, so instead looks at Opal who looks back with trusting, wide eyes.

“Your dad, obviously.”

“Yeah, sure,” Cora flips her hair over her shoulder in a way which should not convey as much sarcasm as it does. “ _Obviously._ ”

JJ figures it’s not a valid point in time to laugh, so coughs instead. Opal swings their hand, her free thumb going to her mouth.

“Don’t suck,” Cora chides immediately. “Baby.”

“Hey,” JJ warns.

Oscar’s smoking a joint on the steps to his trailer as JJ, Opal and Cora appear on the driveway. He stands up and wavers on his feet. Opal calls, “daddy!” and runs towards him with open arms.

Cora folds her arms across her chest and looks on dispassionately. “Who hit you?” she asks JJ instead.

“My dad.”

“Oh. Sucks.” The child taps one toe against the compact dirt driveway. “Dad don’t hit no one.”

JJ tries to envision raising a fist to this girl standing so trustingly next to him. Can’t muster up the image. “Good.” He pauses in consideration. “You don’t deserve to be hit.”

“Do you?”

“Huh?”

“Deserve to be hit?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“You seem okay.”

JJ smiles a little. “Why thank you.” His tongue touches his lower lip. “Dude – if you ever need me. Just give me a call.”

Cora fixes him with a withering look. “I’m seven,” she explains patiently. “I don’t have a phone.”

After one last look of vague disgust, Cora finally runs to join her family. Oscar has Opal on one hip; bumps the child’s side against the porch steps as he heads inside. Pauses for a moment to raise a hand to JJ. His cousin gestures him in, but JJ shakes his head.

“Gotta see a girl!” he calls instead. “I’ll see you.”

It takes a moment to Google the number. But then JJ takes a breath and dials.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> with many thanks to sara for beta-ing this hot mess!! 
> 
> thank you so much for the lovely comments and kudos and everything. they are my bread and butter and i love you all <3


	6. five.

It’s not like he lied to his cousin. He does have to go and see a girl.

Kiara texts him to say she’s at the Chateau and it’s blessedly empty apart from Kiara making something in the kitchen.

There’s a pan on the stove and the crackety radio is turned high on some old 80’s pop station. Kiara is barefoot, wearing faded red wide legged trousers JJ thinks she bought from an Indian market. Her hips sway; her hair tied up in a pile on her head. Some strands escape in wisps around her neck and ears.

She jumps as his hand curves around her hip. As he presses a kiss to the back of her neck. Her head drops backwards to his shoulder, meaning he can press open mouthed kisses to her jawline and her cheek.

“You find them okay?”

In a moment, the spell is broken. JJ keeps his arms looped there. Rests his chin on her shoulder instead. “Yeah – they were with Ms Jenkins.” JJ butts his cheek to hers like a cat. “Home safe.”

“Good.” She’s gone a little unmoving, a little tense. “So I was thinking – we should probably talk.”

“We talk all the time.”

“About us and – about South America, and things.”

JJ slides his hands back to her hips. Grips them. “Or we could… not.”

“JJ…”

Her tone’s at odds with the way her head tips backwards, resting against his shoulder. 

JJ keeps his hands painfully still. Rests his chin on Kiara’s shoulder. It moves with her breaths. 

“Fuck you,” she mutters eventually, and she twists around to face him. 

“Oh, I intend to.”

*

Sarah Cameron is kind of hard to miss. She is a glossy, glorious embodiment of the Kook upbringing and privilege. Some people purposefully cross the road to avoid her when she meanders down the sidewalk. Some shoot her smiles which look more like grimaces in solidarity for her trauma. 

She wears oversized polka dot sunglasses, has a popsicle in one hand and the colourful straps to a woven bag in the other. 

Sarah Cameron also says, “so. Kiara.” 

It turns out sitting around the house in silence is not precisely conducive to sobriety. JJ’s always been a believer in keeping his hands busy to try and silence his mind. The result is him schlepping around the Island with a bag of tools and trying to persuade old engines to run again. 

It’s hot out, so he wears overalls tied at the waist. His shirt is slung across the roof of the Chevrolet he’s currently working on to try and dry it out. 

He looks up at Sarah’s approach. Quickly appraises her outfit (peach crop top, yellow shorts, polkadot glasses). The bright red popsicle drips, a drop landing between her perfectly manicured feet. 

JJ raises an eyebrow. Tosses the rag he’s been using to wipe oil from the engine to his other hand. “Why hello Sarah. How are you today? Lovely weather we've been having recently. Yes, I think we could have another dry summer. Yes, a pool would be a blessing.”

Sarah licks the popsicle before it can drip again, then crunches through the ice with her front teeth. JJ’s kind of impressed by the strength of her enamel. Makes a mental note to check what toothpaste John B is stocking at the Chateau. 

“Kiara,” Sarah starts again.

“No, JJ. I’m JJ.”

Sarah sighs. Crunches on the popsicle a little further. 

“Kiara tells me you guys haven’t really spoken.”

JJ can feel his eyebrows pulling together. Fights to stop it. “Right.”

“She says she feels like you’re just… What did she say again? Papering over the cracks, or something.”

JJ’s heart is so frequently in his boots he wonders whether it ever resides in his chest. “Nice.”

“No, not really.” Sarah pushes her glasses off her eyes, up onto her head. A stand of honey gold hair gets trapped under one sunglasses’ arm and JJ can feel himself becoming hyper focussed on that rather than the look Sarah is giving him. “You need to talk to her. Properly talk.”

“Thank you, oh wise one. I think I might decline to take relationship advice from someone who literally runs away from every single relationship and wants to side with her murderous asshole of a dad over her non-murdering and probably richer boyfriend. But you do you, boo. And I’ll do me.”

JJ can almost hear Sarah’s teeth grinding together, her jaw tense. “Do you even know why she went, JJ? Do you even care? As long as she’s back, it’s all okay. Is that it? You’ve got what you wanted and you don’t even give a fuck about finding out why your girlfriend wanted to get so far away from you in the first place?”

JJ can feel his movements go all jerky, like they do when he feels threatened. Takes a deep breath through his nose. “It sounds a lot like none of your fucking business, Sarah.”

“Kiara’s my friend, so it is, actually.”

“John B’s my friend,” JJ points out blankly. “And you don’t see me going around ragging you out even though you tore off his head and shat down his neck and it’s taken about two years for him to look happy again. I’m not here asking why the fuck you’re back to screw up his life and leave him all fucked up _again_ like you’re just addicted to having people be obsessed with you but never actually giving a shit about them as individuals. But, like I said, you do you boo. I’ll do me.”

Sarah glares. Recites, in a monotone: “I have commitment issues and am still processing some heavy trauma due to the revelations of my father’s misdemeanours. It’s a result of disrupted emotional bonds which leaves me second guessing every single relationship in my life, and means I probably always will.”

“Glad to know therapy is working out for you. Now your daddy issues are formally diagnosed. Good job.”

“Fuck you.”

“Maybe you should make sure you write that down on a postcard before you leave so John B can read it and feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”

They glare at each other with the sidewalk in between them. Sarah tosses the wooden stick of her popsicle to the ground. Adjusts her glasses so they’re back over her eyes.

“She wanted to come back,” Sarah says casually. “Two weeks in. She was about to book her flights.” It’s the set up that makes JJ abandon all pretense of not listening and just stare at her. “I told her not to.”

“What?”

“I told her she had to be sure you were worth it. Had to be really, truly sure.”

His heart may never crawl out of his boots. His breathing is shallow; through parted lips, ever so slightly ragged. 

“Do you think she’s sure? I’m not convinced. I think she should have stayed longer. Forever, maybe.” There’s the slightest hint of self satisfaction at the corner of Sarah’s mouth as she appraises him now. Struck wordless and numb, a oil streaked rag hanging listlessly from one closed fist. “You should talk.”

“And you should try to leave John B in the same state you found him. Which is mostly sane, mostly happy, and a damn sight less screwed up than when I came home.”

Without seeing her eyes JJ can’t accurately assess whether the barb hits as he intends it to. Sarah’s mouth hasn’t moved from the flat line her lips are pressed into. He thinks she’s staring at him still, so doesn’t give her the satisfaction of him breaking away from their heavy staring contest first.

“Well,” Sarah chirps eventually with faux brightness. “This has been a good talk. Real refreshing.”

JJ grunts and turns away. “Damn straight. See you around, sweetheart.”

“Sure thing, honey.”

JJ doesn’t look at her as she retreats down the sidewalk. Keeps his gaze on the mess of the engine until she’s safely out of earshot. Only then does he drop the rag and fist his hands in his hair. Only then does he kick the tyre of the Chevrolet with a barely there exhalation of anger. Then again, because all the first kick does is rebound off and make the heel of his boot collide with his other shin. He grits his teeth together so hard his jaw and temples ache. 

Fucking Sarah Cameron.

*

It’s times like these that his pulse jumps in his throat and his hands won’t still and his legs keep bouncing over and over and over. One simple, beautiful pill would make it all stop. 

Instead he chain smokes and holds his head and tries not to clash his teeth together as the force of his perpetual motion jolts his jaw. His legs dangle over the side of the porch, one hand gripping the edge of the wooden decking. 

“JJ?”

Beezlebub reaches him first. A blur of dark beige fur and a minor amount of drool that he forgave her for months ago. He buries his free hand in her coat and holds his cigarette out of her reach. Takes a long drag with his head turned away from her. 

Kiara stands on the porch with Bee’s leather lead still looped around her wrist. JJ looks quickly at her, then back across the back yard. 

Kiara’s in his house and she walks his dog and now they’ll have dinner together and all he can think is this is just an obligation. This is just guilt or empathy or duty. 

“I got Thai,” Kiara starts again. “I’ll just go feed Bee.”

He does not want Thai. He wants his maybe-girlfriend to want to be with him. 

They eat dinner in silence which Kiara does not attempt to broach. She does get up halfway through and click the speaker on to play some soft folk-esque music. 

He takes their dishes and loads them into the dishwasher and then tells it, “I saw Sarah today.”

There’s an order to the dishwasher that JJ can never quite master. He stacks things all wrong, so things often come out dirtier than they went in. Kiara often takes over with a sigh and re-arranges his efforts.

But tonight she remains steadfast at the table.

“She said.” 

For someone who talks for most of his waking minutes, words don’t come easily when they carry meaning. 

“Why did you go?” he asks eventually. 

“I needed to.”

“Why?”

JJ slides the dish rack back into the washer and closes the door slowly. Straightens up and turns back around to face her. Kiara is frowning at the table, hands clasped loosely before her. 

“I needed to either change the situation, or get out of the situation. Changing it didn’t seem like an option. So I left it.”

“The situation.”

“Yeah.”

“Am I the situation?”

Kiara sucks in a breath. “The situation is being home and not doing whatever I wanted anymore. But, yeah, it was also partly you.” There’s a beat. JJ curls his hands around the edge of the counter for something to ground himself. 

“Did Sarah tell you to stay away?” Kiara pauses before nodding once. “Did you want to?” 

Slowly, slowly, Kiara’s gaze rises to meet his. She shakes her head.

Her gaze jumps to the wall opposite the chair she sits in. “It’s not as simple as that.”

“As what?”

“Just… I wasn’t staying away. I was-” Her hands clap and re-clasp. “JJ - we came back and we’d had this four year sabbatical without any bullshit or work, we’d just gone. Then you just stumbled into a job you liked without trying and fuck, J, I was trying. The yoga and the Wreck. But I felt like I was sixteen again and my opinions didn’t matter or I hadn’t grown up at all. We’d been gone for years. It was like everyone was trying to shoehorn me back into who I was. Then there was my parents going on about how it wasn’t too late for college, and there was John B and Sarah, so I felt disloyal to John B speaking to Sarah, which by the way, is bullshit. There are two very spheres that I can co-exist in-”

“I never said you couldn’t-”

“No, you didn’t, but it’s how it felt. You were so happy - you had John B, you had the Heyward’s and Pope on holidays and Bee and it was - it was all going so well. Then you started going weird and you asked so many times what was wrong but you never said. I had to find out from Pope who saw you on campus-”

“Kie-”

“And I know you love your dad even though objectively he is - not the best,” Kiara catches and censors herself in the last second. 

“I was just going through some stuff, Kie-”

“It wasn’t just that. It wasn’t the drinking or the smoking or whatever you were getting from Oscar. I spent twelve days at my parents house and I don’t think you noticed. Dad wanted me to take over the running of the Wreck because I wasn’t doing anything else. I was on some treadmill with the same shit but with a boyfriend who lied or straight up wasn’t there. I was trying - fuck, JJ - I was trying.”

“You should have told me-” the words are through numbed lips.

“Your dad had been diagnosed with cancer. Me not wanting to work at the Wreck hardly measured up.”

"It's not a competition," he wants to emphasise. "Just because my dad has cancer doesn't mean you are somehow less worthy of emotions or whatever the fuck you think-"

"Not like that," Kiara looks to the wall, the floor. To Beelzebub then finally, eventually, JJ. "I don't think of it like that. It was just - it was a lot. At the time. And I was having a very, very minor existential crisis. I tried to talk to you about it - honestly, I really did. It was just easier and simpler and just - less. To go. I was so happy when we were away. But this time it wasn't the same and I couldn't relax or breathe any easier and I kept wondering why. Perhaps it's coincidence that everything has seemingly settled now I'm back, or maybe you're just my fucked up inhaler for life or something, but it looks like you're stuck with me. If you'll have me."

JJ pauses. Considers. "It would be pretty rad if you didn’t run away again."

"I can't promise that. I have no intention to, but I can't promise that I never will. "

One shoulder rises in a shrug. “Well, that’s that then.”

“JJ.” It’s exasperated; nearing terse. 

“It’s cool, okay? You’re sorry, I’m sorry, etcetera, etcetera. We’re good. No more existence-whatever weirdness.”

“Existential.”

“That too. You could also maybe call off your guard dog and tell her to go fuck herself. That would be appreciated.”

“I didn’t ask Sarah to approach you. The opposite, in fact.”

JJ tuts. “Rich people never listen. Or is it just women?”

Kiara huffs out a breath. “You’re such an asshole. Barely worth the hassle.”

“Incorrect. Hassle is tryna figure out what you’re gonna do besides the Wreck. Or whether you wanna go somewhere else.” 

Relief does things to people’s actions. Like they’re a marionette puppet and their puppeteer has unceremoniously cut all their strings. Kiara’s shoulders slump down towards the floor and her limbs lose all rigidity. The wine glass clacks against her teeth as she takes a gulp and places it back on the table. Now the tension has left the room, Beezlebub decides to start gnawing obnoxiously on a bone. 

“Well, you know that university’s marine biology centre over on north side-”

“The so-called third rate college Pope said he wouldn’t be seen dead at?”

“That’s the one. I was thinking something like that.”

He could fold his arms around her and he thinks she would lean her forehead against his shoulder and he could make some quip about turtles and deadbeat colleges.

Instead the peace feels tentative and insubstantial enough that all he manages is, “well, you’d better get signed up.”

The responding smile is a sunbeam through storm ragged clouds. “I like your thinking.”

*

John B turns twenty five first in April. Then Pope in May. It’s JJ’s three weeks later on an overcast and then rainy day in June. There’s a windchill snapping over the island; whipping up sand into eyes and the best surf they’ve had in weeks.

Kiara is the waterform of Medusa; rain making her hair into wet ropes over her wetsuit clad shoulders. 

At midday, JJ’s coerced into blowing out candles on a distinctly homemade cake proffered by Yvonne. John B’s singing is the loudest and the least tuneful; Sarah tugs on his arm, laugh-singing. JJ’s feet tap against the floor and he folds his arms and unfolds them. 

“Make a wish!” Yvonne urges, as the loud and out of tune singing peters out. JJ can see Kiara grinning at him from where she stands next to her parents. He closes his eyes and blows.

*

There’s still so much time so JJ pulls an old push bike from a tangled heap down at the salvage yard. The spokes are bent or snapped and the handlebars are out of track with the wheels. Fred waves off any semblance of payment as JJ wheels it to the shipping container masquerading as the office for the entire junkyard.

Kiara sighs when he pulls it from the bed of his truck and sets up camp on the porch. As he sands the rust off the frame and picks out new paint at the hardware store. 

“You could just buy a new one,” Pope points out. He’s sitting on the edge of the porch eating Cheetos by the handful. He wipes his Cheeto dusted hands on Beezlebub’s fur. JJ slants him a look. 

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Or you could ride your other bike. The motorised one.”

“Apparently I’m giving the planet cancer or some shit.”

“Single handedly? You’re a fast mover.”

“The way Kie talks about it, you’d think so. _We all have to do our piece, JJ. The other day I saw a turtle wearing a tin can_. And when I said maybe it was just a fashion accessory - maybe she’d interrupted a catfish walk - sweet Jesus.”

Pope makes a noise in his throat. Flicks Beezlebub a Cheeto in payment for her service as a living napkin. “Still stands that you could have purchased another.”

“Reduce, reuse, recycle, Rihanna.” JJ scrubs at a particularly stubborn patch of rust. It settles in orange speckles on his hands and forearms. 

“I suppose you don’t have a job to keep you entertained.”

“Keep me entertained? What am I - five?”

“Excuse you. That’s an insult to five year olds.”

JJ ducks his head to hide his involuntary smile. 

“But seriously - have you even checked your bank account recently? The Trust paid out on your birthday.”

“Bank, schmank,” JJ dismisses. “I trust you to manage my fund.”

“I’m a doctor, not a financial adviser.”

“You’ve been to college.”

“You’ve been to the college of life.”

“Pope, my man. My dude. My friend.” JJ leans over the frame of his bike and pushes at Pope’s chin. “Sometimes you need to learn to shut the fuck up.”

“Bro - we finally just got given shit loads of money. Have you not even thought about what you’d want to do with it?”

“Popey,” JJ starts scrubbing the bike frame with sandpaper once more. “I don’t even know how much there is. And,” he glances up to make his point. “I do not care. All I want is a house and my dog and some dank weed and I am set for life.”

“You’re only gonna be set for life if you invest in sustainable, organic portfolios for a decent percentage yield. You can balance ethics with sustainability-”

“Oh my God,” JJ throws the sandpaper block at Pope’s head. His friend jerks out the way a second too slowly and looks affronted as the rough block bops him on the nose and clatters to the floor. “We’re twenty five, dude. We should not be talking about portfolios and organic growth.”

“You need to consider your risk-reward strategy.”

“May the Lord strike me down-”

“It’s just responsible,” Pope insists reverently. “There’s not enough to never work again, but maybe there is if you manage it properly and invest and don’t blow it on stupid shit like a hot tub and a generator.”

“I still stand by that generator,” JJ sniffs primly. “That was just responsible planning considering the island wide power outages. Some may even say forward thinking, with the increasingly frequent unpredictable weather we get as a result of global warming. I was breaking down barriers between those who had and those who did not. Socialism, my friend.”

“And the hot tub?”

“We bonded, Pope. Some could say it was the beginning of it all for me and Kie. One look at my prone, vulnerable torso, and she was putty in my hands. Still is, as luck would have it-”

Pope clamps his hands over his ears. “Not listening, not listening, so not listening.” 

“You spout shit about portfolios and investments and you can’t handle the thought of pure, sweet, unadulterated love between two consenting adults, just doing what God would have wanted and experiencing the-”

“I hate you,” Pope chirps cheerfully. “But please don’t buy hundreds of hot tubs or whatever your chimp brain is telling you to do.” 

Pope picks up the sandpaper block and tosses it back. JJ snatches it from the air. “I thought we weren’t to make light of my very serious legitimately diagnosed medical condition.”

“You have a chimp brain that likes to ride a go-kart through life.” 

“That is… surprisingly imaginative from you. You been listening to some spicy podcasts or something? Oh shit - tell me it’s not audio books.”

“You listen to audiobooks!”

“Because I can’t read!”

“They mean I can multitask! It’s an efficient use of time! Besides, you can read. I taught you, remember?” 

“You don’t let me forget, asshole.”

Pope grins briefly. “You were the worst tutee ever.”

JJ preens. “Why thank you.”

“But seriously-”

“Pope,” JJ warns.

“Sort your money out.”

“A house and my dog will suit me just fine.”

“You can do that,” Pope considers. “Get some advice. See what they say.”

“Yes, _mom_.”

“Dad,” Pope corrects. “Heyward gave me his accountant’s number and everything.”

“Jesus fuck,” JJ mutters mournfully. “What have we become?”

“Adults,” Pope supplies helpfully. “Very, very rich adults. It could be a lot worse.”

“Optimism doesn’t suit you, darling.”

“Get used to it, sweetheart.”

*

JJ finishes the bike a month after his birthday and takes it on its maiden voyage around the island. Somehow he ends up cruising towards where Oscar’s double wide is. Doesn’t turn down the bumping drive because he’s not infallible. He’s human and with quarter as much impulse control as an average member of the public. 

It’s probably something cosmic, the bike being fixed on that very Tuesday afternoon. That the handlebars seemed to steer him towards that particular area of town. So he can see the singular cop car and another unmarked car at the end of the driveway, their sirens stilled. 

It’s quiet, just the low hum of conversation drifting across the expanse of dirt driveway towards where JJ leans on his handlebars and frowns at the scene. Intervention seems excessive but also somehow necessary.

Oscar is crouching at the bottom of the porch and hugging each girl in turn. Smoothing down their hair and adjusting their backpack straps. 

Next, the two small figures are guided into the back of the plain car by a woman with a bob cut and shoes Kiara would describe as _sensible_ with a grimace. Opal is holding the woman’s hand, but Cora - she breaks the relative calm with an inhuman wail, a scream. Someone rushes from the other side of the car as she breaks free and runs back towards the porch. Which is when Oscar starts blurting, “it’s okay, it’s okay, girl you’ll be back here, I’ll get you back, it’s okay,” and backing away, tripping up the steps with his hands held up.

It takes five minutes to wrestle Cora into the car - and even then she’s hitting her flat palms against the window and shouting. There must be a child lock or something - JJ sees her trying to climb into the front but the woman and the man are talking at them rapidly, the woman’s arm extended between the front seats. 

They drive past JJ slowly. JJ stares into the back of the car - to Cora’s mouth, open and screaming defiance, to Opal’s shellshocked look, her bag clutched on her knee. Cora stops her yelling when she sees him. They lock eyes and the girl stares, mouth agape, her brow furrowed in outrage. Then the moment passes him by - the car turns left out of the driveway; dirt giving way to asphalt. 

There are officers with Oscar, who’s crouched in the dirt kicked up by the retreating cars, his hands clasped behind his head. They are touching his shoulders, faces schooled into cool empathy. 

JJ waits on the sidewalk until they’ve dispersed. It takes half an hour; of talking, of handing over paperwork and exchanging numbers in cell phones and nodding. Oscar nodding rapidly and drawing a hand over his eyes. Then they leave without ceremony nor fanfare; the cop cruiser car bumping down a pothole, the underside making a distinctly unhealthy scraping noise. 

JJ bumps his bike down the drive. Oscar has been left on the porch with a handful of leaflets which rustle gently in the breeze. 

The chain squeaks as he approaches. Oscar only looks up when JJ dumps the bike in the dirt and stands at the bottom of the porch steps, saying quietly, “Oscar.”

His cousin does not flinch at the interruption. He does look slowly upwards. There is a cigarette between his fingers, the smoke ribboning towards the clouds. 

“You can get them back.” The words sound hollow even to his ears. 

Oscar’s laugh is bitter and twisted. Wrought through his back teeth. “All they need to do is look inside here and we both know that’ll go in their reports. I’ve not been the best at school or lunches or stuff. But I love them - they have a home and food and drink and clothes and fuck, JJ, what the fuck am I supposed to do now?”

“I don’t know, Os. I don’t fucking know.” 

The residual dust from the retreating cars has finally settled. Oscar leans his head against JJ’s stomach and he wraps his arm around his cousin’s shoulder and tries to swallow back the guilt.

*

It takes eight weeks from the application until the two girls are formally fostered. Three weeks of Cora and Opal being placed in a short term foster home until the Heywards are formally approved due to their proximity and prior involvement with children of the Cut. JJ gets interviewed as part of their assessment process; John B too.

They have a debrief about it afterwards. JJ is learning the cycle friendly routes around the island and makes it in record time. His brakes squeal when he taps them lightly (over exuberant use sends him sailing towards the handlebars - he’s learnt his lesson since).

“Your bike,” John B says in consideration as JJ squeals to a stuttering halt outside the Chateau. “It has streamers.”

The rainbow streamers are a blatant addition by Kiara. JJ’s not sure when she snuck them onto his handlebars, but she smiles everytime she sees them, so he decided a while ago they were staying. 

“I think the baskets warrant more ridicule than streamers,” Sarah scoffs. “Front and back?”

Pope squints closer. “Are they saddle bags?”

“Extra utility,” JJ breezes. “Don’t want your bud bumping around on these roads. Needs to be secure.” He pats the nylon bags. 

John B looks thoughtful. “Utility you say.”

“Don’t even get me started on the paintwork,” Kiara grouses. She’s unbuckling her helmet and shaking out her hair. 

“Did he want go faster stripes?” Pope looks amused.

“No,” JJ dismisses quickly, “that’s extra paint which would make the bike heavier and slower.”

“And the double baskets don’t?” Sarah makes to pluck at one. JJ rams at her foot with the bike’s front wheel. 

There is an ensuing shuffle - JJ trying to run Sarah’s foot over with the wheel, Sarah pushing at the handlebars to unbalance him. No one seems willing to step in to separate them. John B looks on fondly; Pope with amusement. Kiara is unwilling to intervene with any JJ and Sarah interaction in case she breaches their carefully strung peace. 

It’s not like JJ is getting behind the Sarah and John B reunion, but he’s never been in the business of intercepting other people’s decisions. JJ’s more in the business of being the lighthearted relief when things undoubtedly go awry. 

John B seems happier regardless of JJ’s unasked for opinion. JJ considers that most of his newfound happiness could perhaps be attributed to the fact he’s getting laid, but John B’s just as moony over Sarah Cameron as he always is. Most days it’s blazing Outer Banks heat, meaning Kiara and Sarah walk around in less and less clothing and John B is regularly struck wordless and gaping.

Perhaps JJ is no better though, because he legitimately falls off the back of the HMS Pogue when Kiara pulls off her top to reveal an emerald bikini with one of those ties around the back and around her neck. The water is cold and shocking - it takes a second for instinct to kick in and for him to break the surface, kicking and spluttering. 

“What was that about?” John B asks in bemusement as JJ hooks his elbows over the side and bobs in the water. He’s glad the propellor isn’t on - that they’re moored, basking in the overhead sun. 

Kiara catches his eye and raises her sunglasses just to wink at him. Her skin is speckled with sea water, with patches of salt he’s tempted to lick off. Her long legs are stretched out on the bow of the boat; her hair is a pile on her head, held in place by a rapidly loosening bandana. 

JJ has to duck back under the water to chill the fuck out. 

*

Two weeks after they move in with the Heywards, Cora locks herself in the bathroom and floods it.

JJ can tell Heyward is annoyed when he recounts this tale as JJ perches on the counter crunching an apple. There’s frustration in Heyward’s tone. His movements are less smooth, jerkier.

JJ has to take shallow breaths and concentrate on eating his apple rather than the other man’s anger. 

"Of course, we’ve gotta take the lock off now. That’s on top of the broken door handle and bedframe,” Heyward grouses. “Kids - they’re more trouble than they’re worth.” The cash register slams shut. 

JJ likes to pride himself on the fact that he holds the majority of his cards close to his chest. One time John B got really high and cried about how he knew JJ but he didn’t really know _know_ him. 

Yet still, people look at him all the time and they _know_ him, despite his best efforts.

He knows he’s still. Knows his feet aren’t drumming the counter and he is still holding the apple but it’s looser, lower down, redundant. 

All Heyward has to do is take one look at him - JJ hasn’t even said anything. Is just looking at this man (his foster father; perhaps his first choice adult). 

Heyward clears his throat. Looks away. “Wouldn’t change them for the world though, kid. They’ll get there. Just kids, isn’t it. People used to say we were spoilt with Pope - said he walked right out the womb a full ass adult. But we had our fair share of troubles with him too. They’ll come right. A little tough love and some spit, we’ll shine them right up.”

JJ’s heel drums against the counter once more. He takes an obnoxious bite of apple. “All Maybanks are little shits,” he informs Heyward cheerfully. “It’s genetics. And you can’t outrun genetics.”

Heyward snorts. “Kid, you are the least Maybank Maybank there has ever been. Now make yourself useful and move these crates.”

JJ salutes as he slides off the counter. “Yessir. Whatever you say, sir.”

*

“This is the worst idea we’ve ever had,” Kiara hisses. 

“I said we should have stuck to good old fashioned hide and seek,” JJ hisses back. He’s wedged in her armpit in the bottom of their closet, covered in jackets and various discarded items of clothing. Opal is running from room to room, her Converses slapping the floor with each stride. She hums and chatters as she checks all potential hiding spaces. 

“You could have picked somewhere more imaginative than the closet,” Kiara grouses back. 

“I panicked! I didn’t even know Cora could count, nevermind count backwards so quickly!”

They fall into a silence as the footsteps get closer. They recede again, Opal’s singing becoming fainter. “It was pretty impressive,” Kiara admits. 

“And she knew sardine was a fish,” JJ points out. “That’s pretty cool.”

There’s a silence in their tiny, claustrophobic hiding place. JJ didn’t really think things through before he shut himself in a closet and before Kiara found and joined him, he could barely think straight. But although his head is basically in her armpit and most of her weight is on his legs (they’ve gone dead, which is a blessed relief) - the panic has gone. Instead all he can smell is the salty smell of Kie’s skin; her coconut hair product and her something-tea organic deodorant. 

“You’re surprisingly good with them,” Kiara says in an almost forcefully casual way. “The girls.”

JJ has to swallow a laugh, lest he give away their extremely discrete hiding place. “Probably about the same mental age.”

“Mmm.” Kiara shuffles. JJ grunts as she elbows him in the stomach, and then knocks him around the head.

“Jesus, woman,” he complains. “You tryna rough me up?”

She settles with her arm hooked around the back of his neck. “It’s pretty hot.”

“Being roughed up? ‘Cause I can always visit papa, if that’s your thing.”

“No.” Her voice is very loud now; very close to his ear. She presses a butterfly light kiss right below the lobe. JJ can hear her soft exhale. “You with kids.”

He knows his breath hitches when she kisses his cheek again. Then his eyebrow. Then the bridge of his nose. There’s a limited range of movement and space - but there’s enough to run his hand up from her knee to the hem of her shorts and tug at the material there. Kiara’s breath (still right next to his ear) catches on an inhale. 

The footsteps are rapid then, drawing closer. JJ flattens his palm against Kiara’s thigh, draws her closer and closes his eyes as though not seeing the intruder would render himself invisible.

Someone fumbles with the door, then throws it open. Cora stares down at the two of them, curled around each other on the closet floor. There’s triumph in the girl’s eyes as she appraises the situation. JJ blinks rapidly in the sudden light.

“You’ve gotta join us,” JJ points out, “for Opal to find.”

“Opal’s lost the game anyway because she’s the last one to find you,” the girl puts her hands on her hips, her chin tilted. “I don’t need to hide as well.”

It’s a grounding thing to be outsmarted by a seven year old, but JJ is used to it by now. “The game ends when we’re all hidden.”

“I don’t want to hide.” There’s stubbornness in the girl’s eyes. Something else.

Kiara pokes him in his shoulder hard. Maybe he’s a soft touch. Maybe it’s the fact that Yvonne talks about how despite her bluster and bravado, Cora is the most unconfident of the two. How she’s getting less than stellar reports from school. How she still talks about going home. How she is disruptive after the supervised visitation with Oscar and doesn’t settle for days.

“Fine, okay,” JJ pacifies. He shifts and dislodges Kiara who scrambles for purchase on the closet door. She hauls herself upright just as Opal gallops into the room, bouncing off the doorframe in her eagerness. 

“Found you! Found you!” she shrieks joyfully. “I win!” 

“I found them first,” Cora defends. “You’re the loser. That’s the whole point of the game, dummy. Find people.” 

Opal pouts, eyes darkening, lower lip threatening to tremble. Which is the precise moment the closet relinquishes it’s hold on JJ and Kiara. JJ wobbles on deadened legs, clutching the side of the closet, but Kiara is all action. She claps her hands and says, “cookies! Let’s make cookies!”

More ingredients end up on the floor and on the counter than on the tray in the oven. Cora throws an egg against the wall when it still refuses to crack on her third attempt. Opal cries because the egg promptly breaks and gloops down the wall. She tries to claw at the split yolk, scooping it with her hands, until JJ takes her by her shoulder and guides her down from her step and over to the sink to wash her hands. Kiara moves in with the cloth. 

Unfortunately Kiara asks for requests for music and they get stuck in a loop of listening to Baby Shark. 

“This is your fault,” JJ complains as they pass each other; JJ with a tray of lightly crisped (burnt) cookies with Cora slinking behind, holding his forearm and tugging it downwards to try and see the finished product. Opal is dancing on top of her step stool, using a spoon as a microphone as the opening bars of Baby Shark plays for the eleventh time.

A dollop of cookie mixture drops from the spoon onto the floor. Opal overbalances and steps in the mixture. Her brand new yellow Converse (JJ thinks they might have been picked to match Kiara’s) skids on the chocolate chip studded greased mixture, which propels her face first towards the floor.

In some move Anakin would be proud of, JJ drops the cookie tray and dives. Cora, still holding his forearm, moves with him. Mere inches from the floor, JJ snatches Opal upright. The tray of cookies tips precariously towards the floor before JJ rights both baked goods and the child. Opal clutches his arm, blinking ferociously. Then she giggles.

“Good catch,” Kiara says admiringly. She has her hand in Beelzebub’s collar, hauling the dog away from the crime scene.

“You always ruin everything,” Cora snaps at Opal in a growl. “Jay almost dropped the cookies and they’ve taken _ages_.”

“Hey,” JJ protests. “Cora. That’s not kind. The cookies are fine. Your sister’s face is also fine. Everyone wins.”

“You could have dropped them,” Cora protests.

“We can make more cookies, but making another Opal is way more complicated.” Kiara presses a warm hand to his neck. When he glances at her, she meets his gaze steadily. 

Cora looks ready to scream or argue or do something else entirely excessive. Kiara says, “here, try a cookie,” and plucks one from the baking tray. Cora takes it automatically, although she squints at it suspiciously in her hands. 

They have special plastic tumblers in the cupboards at Seaview, so Kiara fills them with milk to dunk the cookies in. They all sit out on the porch and eat them slowly, watching Beelzebub toss her own ball into the air and snap it into her jaws. Cora slides Bee some chocolate-less cookie when she thinks JJ isn’t looking. Kiara’s hip is pressed to his; her knee knocking his to one side. 

Opal runs to Yvonne when she comes to pick them up. Cora slopes up besides JJ, her hand tucked under her backpack strap. She likes to take it wherever she goes. Yvonne says it’s got a change of clothes and a scrap of paper with Oscar’s address in it. 

Once they’ve left, with Beezlebub barking an exiting fanfare, and Cora scowling through the back window, JJ gets two beers and takes them to the porch. Kiara is already stretched out in the hammock, arms tucked behind her head. Her hand closes around the beer bottle when JJ knocks it against her knuckles. 

They have a hammock so large it makes a mockery of all others. He’s close enough that he can drag his knuckles down her arm and tangle their fingers together, should he be so inclined. That he can hook his ankle over hers. Bury his nose into her collarbone. 

“They’re gonna be okay.” The words hum through her sternum, where her chin is resting. Kiara rolls her head so she’s looking down at him. 

He’s looking directly up her nose from his vantage point and she’s still the most glorious being the universe has ever permitted to love him.

“Maybe,” he says. “Cora seems pretty fucked up.”

“She’s a kid,” Kiara dismisses. “I was brutal at that age too.”

JJ hums and dangles his hand over the side of the material of the hammock for Beezlebub to press her tug toy into. They wrestle for a moment, Beezlebub’s sudden movements shaking the hammock. 

“You did the right thing, Jay,” Kiara tells him assuredly. He looks up (up her nose once more) to see her eyes peering at him. “I promise you did. It might not feel like it all the time, but you really did.”

JJ closes his eyes. Breathes out heavily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it has been so long since i updated that the seasons have changed, there's been two whole-ass holidays and i somehow got awarded some fic awards. i am still in awe of the latter so if you voted or nommed me and my messes masquerading as fiction, you have my whole heart.
> 
> altho a teeny part of that very same heart is reserved for mia ([aka smileymikey)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smileymikey/pseuds/smileymikey) who has beta-ed this mess many a time and been the best cheerleader and general good egg. some may say getting another brit to beta your already british fic is a mistake. they would be correct


	7. six.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are many around the world references in this chapter, so kudos to anyone who picks up on them
> 
> this is a kind of crack chapter fix it fic to my own fic. i hope you enjoy

Opal and Cora Maybank are placed with the Heywards for two years eight months before Heyward drops down from a heart attack.

It’s a very specific type of heart attack commonly referred to as the widowmaker. Pope never visits his parents mid week, but last minute he’d had some shifts swapped for night shift at the weekend to cover a colleague's wedding (and JJ hasn’t heard the end of that switch and how the colleague just assumed that Pope had nothing better to do. JJ was steadfastly ignored when he pointed out the assumption wasn’t precisely incorrect).

Pope is just changing into sweatpants and his college sweater when he hears his mom scream. Screams are not unusual in the Heyward residence - it houses a nine year old and a seven year old girl. But this isn’t a scream of frustration or play or humour.

Pope recounts the tale as taking the stairs three at a time. Skidding around the corner in his socks. Seeing his dad on the cool kitchen tiles with his mom and the two girls around him.

Luckily (or perhaps unluckily for him, as the experience means he has felt his own dad’s ribs crack beneath his hands) Pope has just finished a placement on ER and is reasonably confident in his own CPR abilities. He starts pumping on his dad’s chest, fingers interlocked. Starts barking orders.

Yvonne rings an ambulance and it’s lucky once more that there is one four blocks away, having just responded to a now-dispersed potential domestic incident. They have the most rudimentary of defibrillators in the back.

Heyward has been dead for a total of four minutes when he reaches the hospital. His heart restarts, then fails, then restarts again. There are surgeons prepped ready when the ambulance docks.

JJ’s persuading Beelzebub to jump over a stick in the backyard when they get the call. It’s to his phone, but Kiara picks it up because the contact picture is a shot of Pope asleep on the couch with a phallus drawn in lipstick on his forehead, courtesy of Kiara's fair hand.

It’s Beelzebub who reacts first to Kiara’s frantic, “JJ! Jay - Jay - fuck - we gotta get to the hospital.” The words are panic stricken enough that JJ is reacting on instinct. Abandoning the treat bag and the stick jumping to sprint across the yard, vaulting the railings on the porch.

“What - what’s wrong? You okay? What’s happened?” he grips her by the shoulders because there’s no immediate harm in doing so - she seems unharmed, clutching her phone in one hand, her face drained of colour.

“It’s Heyward, fuck - Pope just rang. He’s in surgery now.” She takes a deep breath. “Fuck. It was a heart attack or something.”

It’s a normal occurrence for it to take up to ten minutes for JJ to locate his keys. Now he’s tearing paperwork off the sides, checking the nail by the back door where Kiara always says he should keep them. The fact that he has never heeded that advice has never been more cursed than in that moment.

The drive over is tense, with Kiara alternating between gripping the gearstick and JJ’s knee in some semblance of comfort. Her nails dig into his skin but he doesn’t complain.

The door rebounds off the wall with a bang. All eyes turn their way. The waiting room already feels full. Yvonne and Opal and Cora and Pope. Pope’s face softens minutely with relief. The girls are sitting on the plastic chairs somberly; Yvonne has her head in her hands.

Kiara shares a look with JJ before she's pushing gently past him and crossing the room. She immediately slides an arm around Yvonne’s shoulders and starts murmuring soothingly; her hand moves up and down the woman’s upper arm.

JJ clasps a hand to Pope’s shoulder, who covers JJ’s hand with his own. Pope glances downwards to the girls - they’re huddled peering at an iPad, although Cora glances at them regularly, eyes wide and choppy bangs swiped impatiently behind her ears.

“The heart attack he’s had - there’s only a twelve percent chance of survival,” Pope mutters. His hands twitch. He’s dry eyed but JJ can tell he’s held together by a thread. When his world stops making sense, Pope deals with facts and logic.

“Pope,” JJ ventures, because Pope’s head has snapped to the double doors in expectation. A family comes through and Pope shakes his head as though shaking a thought away. JJ flexes his fingers into Pope’s shoulder so his friend looks back at him. “We’ll get through this. Besides, Heyward’s a stubborn bastard. He’s not gonna die before he’s managed to eat one of those potatoes he’s finally managed to grow.”

“To be fair to him, the first batch of seeds did seem mouldy before he planted them-”

“That’s his story. Two years in the making, these potatoes. He ain’t going anywhere anytime soon.”

Pope’s shoulders slump minutely. JJ’s fingers dig into sinew and skin as he grips tighter, as though he can keep Pope upright by sheer force of will and a hand on his shoulder.

It is one of those moments that is so unsurmountable that it is unfathomable. JJ moves his hand to the back of Pope’s neck and holds it there. Slowly, slowly, Pope’s breathing evens out. He closes his eyes and swallows, head tilting forwards.

“It’s okay,” JJ reassures lowly.

“I don’t think the kids should be here tonight. Mom’s - mom’s a mess. She can’t deal.”

“It’s cool. Me and Kie can take them.” JJ looks past Pope just as Kiara looks up. They meet each other’s gaze. Kiara’s head tilts towards the girls - JJ nods quickly. Kiara nods back and resumes murmuring quietly to Yvonne.

“You called Dae?” JJ checks. Mostly because reasoning vacates Pope in any form of a crisis.

“Yeah, yeah. Be here in a couple of hours.” Pope takes a breath that is mostly steady. “Can you stay until then?”

“Course, bro. You called John B?”

“Kie said she texted them. Should be here soon.” Pope closes his eyes and swallows audibly. “Fuck, JJ. Fuck. What if he dies?”

“He won’t.” It takes all his effort to stop his own voice shaking. “He can’t. It’s gonna be okay.”

Pope lets himself be guided to sit into one of the plastic chairs bolted to both the wall and floor of the waiting room.

John B and Sarah arrive in a blur of expensive perfume and squeaking vans. John B drops to his knees before Pope, flings his arms around his neck. JJ’s dislodged from where his shoulder had been pressed against Pope’s, but he re-adjusts.

“Pope,” JJ says gently once sufficient time has passed. Pope’s leaning his forehead against John B’s shoulder and taking deep breaths. “It’s late. We’ve just gotta take the girls back home and then I can be right back, okay?”

“It’s cool,” Pope wipes at his eyes with his sleeve. “Dae will be here soon and it’s not like you can operate on him. If you sort them it’ll worry mom less and yeah, that’s good.” Then smaller, quieter. “Thanks, JJ.”

JJ presses his shoulder into Pope’s, dips his chin against it. “Anytime, bro. You just give me the call and I’m right back here, okay? I’ll keep my phone on loud and everything.”

“Fuck, that’s dedication.”

“Legally, he’s my dad too, so I’d better show some willing.”

The girls are meek to herd into the car. Opal makes grabby hands and though Heyward would give him a stern look and Yvonne would hiss to stop indulging her, JJ swings her onto his hip easily. She links her arms around his neck and breathes her sweet breath into his shoulder. Cora independently seeks out Kiara’s side and sticks to it, hand hovering near hers.

The streetlights and the darkness outside the car lulls the children into sleep within minutes of them slumping into their seats. JJ studies them for minutes before sighing heavily.

Kiara says, “it’s okay to be upset, you know. You love him too.”

“He’s not my dad.”

“He’s good as. Better than your other one, anyway.”

JJ snorts. “The bar for that one is kinda on the floor.”

“Heyward’s set his pretty high.”

The gravity of the situation hits JJ once more. “Yeah.”

“Is he going to die?” a small voice asks from the back. JJ twists around in his seat to peer at the two girls in the back. Opal is still slumped against the door fast asleep, but Cora is staring at him with those dark eyes that give nothing away.

“We don’t know,” Kiara replies eventually. “He’s going to get the best care he can get, Pope’s a doctor and he’s got the best chance.”

Kiara’s eyes are set on the road. JJ glances once at her - sees one singular tear tracking down her cheek. She swipes at it impatiently. JJ touches her shoulder, then bumps his knuckles against Cora’s knee.

“Don’t worry, poop head,” he reassures. “He’ll be just fine.”

“I am not a poop head,” Cora mutters darkly. But she appears somewhat appeased, as she tilts her head back against the seat and closes her eyes once more.

Kiara and JJ share a look. JJ’s thumb swipes across her wrist.

They all sleep in one room. After the second time of being woken up by a sniffling Opal, JJ drags in the spare room mattress and makes her up a bed on the floor. Is woken up a third time by the door creaking open and Cora joining her sister on the floor, arms locked around each other.

JJ’s phone buzzes on his bedside table at 3am. He snatches it up, Kiara stirring and blinking at him blearily.

“He’s made it,” Pope whispers down the phone. “He’s fucking made it.”

Pope hangs up quickly - he’s being driven home by Dae. Kiara’s been close enough to have heard; she rests a hand on JJ’s knees, which have involuntarily drawn up to his chest. He rests his forehead on his knees and allows himself deep breaths that catch in his throat.

Kiara rubs a hand across his shoulders. Presses a kiss to his bare upper arm. “It’s gonna be okay, Jay.”

“Good,” he chokes out. “Because I haven’t got anything to wear to a funeral.”

Kiara laughs quietly. Pulls his forehead from his knees and maneuvers him so he’s lying back down against the pillow. Tucks in the covers around him.

“I love you,” she reminds him.

“Don’t go dying whilst I sleep.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. I want an audience.”

*

Hospital beds make anyone look frail and elderly. JJ is still unprepared for the bed to have an impact on how he views Heyward.

They’re restricted to a ten minute visit because he gets tired out at anything more. Yvonne has already escorted the girls in for their visit; JJ can hear them in the corridor, ridiculing Pope for something. It’s John B and JJ in the hospital room. Brothers, legally and otherwise. Looking at their foster father, asleep in his hospital bed.

“I heard morphine is some good shit,” JJ says just to break the silence.

John B’s been staring at Heyward as though he could summon wellness by sheer willpower alone. John B barely looks JJ’s way, so JJ begins idly flipping through the hospital chart at the end of the bed. He scans the first line and laughs so loudly that John B does look at him, eyes narrowed in question and perhaps annoyance.

“What?” John B demands in a whisper.

“Guess what his name is.”

“JJ, this man has just been through harrowing surgery. His heart has been ripped open. Do not laugh at him!”

JJ replaces the chart into its slot with a sigh. “Jeez, JB. Take a chill pill.”

The room is small. It takes three strides to get to the window. JJ tugs experimentally on the cord framing the glass and the blind flies downwards, slamming into the windowsill. Another tug and the blind impossibly slithers further downwards towards the floor.

John B sighs. “What’s his name?”

“Nah, you’re right. His heart was legit torn open. We should respect that.”

There’s another silence. JJ wrestles with the blind.

“Okay, you can tell me.”

“Or you could just look at the chart yourself - it’s right there.”

John B sniffs condescendingly. “I couldn’t invade his privacy like that.”

“Sarah Cameron - is that you?”

“Tell me.”

“I’m gonna take this shit to my grave.”

“JJ,” John B wheedles. “Tell me.”

“Nah. Privacy and data protection is important, dude. I wouldn’t wanna break any laws now.”

“This better be good.”

“It’s good.”

“Then tell me.”

“It’s real good.”

“JJ!” John B hisses. If JJ didn’t know better, he’d say that John B’s foot rose and fell in some semblance of a food stamp. “Just tell me!”

“Okay. Are you ready?”

“Uh-huh.”

JJ gives the cord one more tug and gazes in satisfaction as the blind retracts up the window, rattling to an abrupt stop. He turns slowly around to see John B squinting at him, basked in the light from the sudden revelation of the sun.

“Heywards name is…” JJ pauses, spreads out his hands solemnly. “John.”

John B splutters on an inhale. “John?! His name is John?”

“Indeed.” JJ nods gravely. “Which means there are three John’s in this room.”

“You barely count as a John,” John B dismisses. “You besmirch our good name. Reject it.”

“Ah but you at the very least know my name is John. Heyward here? Honestly, I thought he was just like Prince or some shit with one name. Or Heyward Heyward.”

“You thought he was called Heyward Heyward?”

“Well I didn’t see you coming up with any brighter ideas, sunshine.”

“No,” John B agrees. “But Heyward Heyward?”

“What would your guess have been?”

“If I’d guessed John, you would have ridiculed me for being big-headed or whatever. Probably Jacob or Elijah or Joseph or something.”

“Fine names,” JJ agrees. “Very biblical.” They both consider Heyward’s sleeping slash unconscious face. “He does look like a Jacob.”

“I’m leaning more towards Elijah.”

“Get well soon, Elijah,” JJ says to the sleeping man. He reaches out a hand and pats vaguely at Heyward’s legs. John B’s hand darts out to curl into the back of JJ’s collar as though to pull him back, but then he just keeps his hand fisted in the fabric there.

“Yeah,” John B’s voice drops back to a whisper. “Get well soon, Elijah. We love you.”

John B’s hand is still on the back of his shirt. JJ slides John B a look to see his friend staring at him with wide eyes, alternating between JJ and Heyward in a significant way.

“Tell him,” John B mouths.

“Uh?” John B’s eyes narrow. JJ clears his throat. “Uh, get well soon?”

“And…?”

“...Hope the food doesn’t suck too much? But I think Yvonne will be smuggling some unapproved Tupperware in and let me tell you, that will be some good shit.”

“And?”

“And?” JJ wracks his brain for any previous statements. “Oh! ...Love you?”

The hand gripping the back of his shirt relaxes. John B slides his arm around JJ’s shoulders instead; leans his head against JJ’s. “We really, really do,” John B murmurs reverently.

JJ pushes at his friend’s arm, laughs a little. “Jesus Christ, JB. Grow some balls.”

“My balls are fine, thank you,” John B defends primly. “Can we maybe not mention them in front of our father?”

“Father now, is he? Besides, he’s dead to the world,” JJ points out idly.

“Alive,” John B corrects.

“Yeah.” JJ looks at Heyward’s face, with his salt and pepper beard and hair that hasn’t seemed to ever have changed in all the years JJ’s known him. Maybe a few more crows feet around the eyes. “Thank fuck for that.”

*

Heyward is out of hospital within three days, but on strict provisions to rest. When JJ visits Heyward is sat in an armchair with what looks like a tumbler of scotch resting on the arm.

“Don’t tell Yvonne,” he warns in his low timbre.

JJ makes a zipping motion across his mouth. “Doc tells me you’re gonna be all healed up soon enough.”

“So they say. Would be good if my body could also get that memo,” Heyward complains.

“Your heart has been cut open and sewn back together, so we can cut it some slack.”

Heyward inclines his head. He’s watching as JJ paces the room, picking up the ornaments and trinkets which have been moved out of the girl’s reach onto higher shelves and hiding places.

Pope places his hands on his father’s shoulders. The man struggles to get out of his armchair to make his way to the bathroom; Pope supports him by his elbow.

Pope returns from the trip upstairs with a somber look.

“Sit down, JJ.” The words are almost tender.

It’s the sort of tone that can only convey bad news, so JJ realises he’s on edge almost immediately. He collapses onto the couch, his knee immediately beginning to move without thought. Pope stares into the middle distance.

“This whole thing,” Pope gestures one hand in the air vaguely. Two fingers end up resting above his heart. “It’s made us realise his age. They were hardly even young when they had me, as y’all liked to remind me.” Pope pauses. Frowns. Licks his lips. “I’m not sure they can do the girls justice, as things are. As grandparents or for a week or two, maybe. Don’t get me wrong, they love them, JJ. More than anything. But they’re almost seventy now. They can’t keep up like they need to. Like they want to.”

JJ focuses on the slightly threadbare arm of the chair. He knows Pope offered to buy the Heywards a bigger house, but they declined. Something about not needing more.

The living room is mostly unchanged from JJ’s childhood. From when JJ and John B were finally accepted into their friend’s house and fed a steady stream of freshly baked cookies whilst pretending to complete science project after science project. JJ cannot think of any other house on the island which would make two misfit kids from the Cut feel more welcomed nor loved.

“Yeah,” JJ says automatically once the silence has stretched on for too long.

“I was wondering whether you could talk to them, maybe. If it comes from you - dad doesn’t want to give up on them. He’s a stubborn shit.”

There’s a creaking on the stairs as Heyward begins his slow descent down the stairs. Pope jumps up to assist. By the time the pair re-enter the living room, JJ has exited stage left - pulling the backdoor shut quietly behind himself.

*

There’s still a worrying amount of co-dependency between the Pogues, so it’s not a surprise that Kiara has been briefed of the most recent developments and is primed and ready.

Firstly, she leaves him alone to rag with Beezlebub and throw a ball for the dog in the backyard of their house. There’s a glass of water on the side when he finally gives up and retreats inside which he downs in one breath and stacks the spent glass neatly in the dishwasher. He can hear Kiara upstairs, wandering around. Then the gentle steps of her padding barefoot down the stairs.

“You okay?” she asks as a faux aside as she passes through the living room to the kitchen. There’s the sound of the faucet running. Kiara returns with a pint of water in each hand. Hands another one to him and retreats. Abandons the pretense somewhat when she adds, “Pope rang.”

“Unless someone else has signed up since two years ago, there’s only one foster home on Kildare, and Brenda’s got four kids in at the moment. She mostly does teens who can feed themselves and stay out the way. Not under tens.”

“No one’s ever accused Brenda of being the best foster mom-”

“They’ll go to the mainland and how’s Oscar gonna get there? Just as Cora’s finally stopped telling all her teachers to fuck off and threatening kids with scissors.”

“And paintbrushes.”

“One time,” JJ dismisses easily. “And that was a joke.”

“It might not be-”

“Group homes fucking suck,” JJ tells her bluntly. “Non-group ones aren’t guaranteed to be any better.”

“There is a solution.” Kiara is leaning against the doorframe, like she’s trying to act casual.

“Oh yeah?”

“I mean - we could,” Kiara looks to the ceiling, then the wall. “We could maybe - we could apply to be a kinship placement.”

“A what?”

“Basically foster parents, but we require less assessing because you’re related to them both.”

“Have you been on Google again?”

“Might have been.”

Beezlebub chases a ball around the living room, colliding with the side of the sofa, claws scrabbling for purchase.

“Should probably get married to help our application, too.”

The speed with which JJ snaps to look at Kiara is immeasurable. “What?”

“If you want.”

“If I want - what?”

“Marriage.” Kiara repeats with slight amusement. “Two people, two rings, vows, the whole shebang.”

“What about the patriarchy?”

“Sometimes you have to play the system to win the system. And if marriage strengthens our application - it’s a necessary step.”

“Fuck.”

“Only after marriage.”

JJ fixes his girlfriend with a look. “You seem remarkably calm for someone throwing around marriage and fostering.”

Kiara tilts her head and takes a sip of water. “I figured we could end up here someday.”

“Could’ve given a man some warning-”

“You process things better under pressure.”

“You sneaky bastard.”

Kiara smiles and pushes off from her perch in the doorframe. “It’s just a thought, Jay. Huge commitment. No one’s expecting us to.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me, woman.”

“And we’ll need a bigger house!” It’s called back as she retreats into the kitchen, Beezlebub abandoning her toy to trot after her hopefully.

A bigger house. A wife. Two kids. It’s enough to make a man feel sick.

*

“It’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

JJ stares at his oldest friend. “You don’t even trust me to hold your phone.”

“In my defence, you have dropped two down toilets, which is an excessive amount,” John B points out neutrally.

“I couldn’t just pause whilst on Zoom to my therapist-”

“You should not be taking your therapist to the bathroom!”

“She’s a hundred and seventy dollars an hour! She can take some change of scenery. Besides, I mute it so I bet she doesn’t even know.”

“Definitely did when you dropped her. And the tiles are probably a giveaway.”

“Dude,” JJ rolls his eyes. “I hadn’t even unzipped, so it was all PG.”

“Sure, sure.”

“Opal and Cora can’t even fit down toilets, so I think they’ll be safe.”

John B grins widely. “Lucky for them.” He takes a swig of non-alcoholic ginger beer, because they do that now. Sit on the porch of the Chateau and drink non-alcoholic beverages and discuss becoming parents.

The weight of the decision threatens to overcome JJ once more. His hand goes automatically to his hair, running his fingers through the strands. Takes a sip of the ginger beer with his other hand, but accidentally swallows wrong or something because the bubbles go up his nose and make him splutter.

John B thumps him on the back. Leaves his hand there once it’s clear JJ’s recovered. “Seriously, bro. It’s a good idea.”

“Actual children-”

“I know.” John B’s fingers grip tighter for a moment before he releases JJ’s shoulder. “But you’ve kept Beezlebub alive this long. That’s gotta count for something.”

“She better fucking stay alive, the amount her food costs,” JJ grumbles.

“You can always give them back, right? Like - it doesn’t have to be permanent.”

“It’s not a fucking try before you buy situation here, dude. This is tiny adult humans who need emotional guidance and all that bullshit. I’m gonna have to tell them what to do. John B - I don’t even know what to do! The other day I had to Google how to boil an egg and do you know what happened? Do you?”

“You already told me - it wasn’t soft boiled.”

“Damn right it wasn’t! The yolk was hard as fuck and the white was gloopy. Google didn’t even give that as an option.” JJ takes another long swig; swipes the back of his hand across his mouth.

“You won’t be boiling children, so I wouldn’t worry about that,” John B dismisses. “You babysit them all the time - wasn’t there like a five day run when Yvonne and Heyward went to that spa thing Pope said would make them immortal or something?”

“I think the word used was rejuvenate-”

“-and no one died that time. They’re at school most of the day and then asleep over half the time - it’ll be a piece of cake. Just take them on walks like you do with Bee and feed them dinner and nod along to all their stories and you’ll be doing better than like eighty percent of the parents on Kildare.”

“The bar for that award is like this far off the ground,” JJ gestures with his thumb and index finger. “Between us we haven’t even got one functioning parent.”

“Exactly! And look how great we turned out! We are fucking A human beings. Productive members of society. JJ, you’re about to go above and beyond and do your civic duty and adopt two defenceless kids. We should be revered.”

“We?”

John B waves his ginger beer. “I’m sure I’ll be babysitting,” he deflects humbly. He takes another sip, but gargles it obnoxiously before swallowing audibly. “You already know what you’re gonna do, my dear friend.”

“Yeah,” JJ agrees. He slumps forwards so his elbows are perched on his knees. “Doesn’t make it any less fucking terrifying though. What if they ask me to help with homework?”

“That’s why they’ll have an uncle Pope.”

“True.” It takes two attempts to get out of the deck chair because instead of investing in new chairs John B merely pulls relics out of one of the three sheds lining the Chateau's perimeters and reassigns them into active duty. The canvas of the chair is inches from the ground, and they have a tendency to hold the occupant hostage. “Oh,” JJ remembers, as he presses an elbow against the frame of the chair and tries to lever himself upwards. “Will you be my best man?”

“What? JJ?! Are you fucking kidding right now?”

“I mean,” JJ looks at John B. “It was kinda expected, wasn’t it? I suppose I did consider Pope, but I figured you’d curdle like soured milk if I didn’t pick you-”

“No - are you getting fucking married?!”

“Oh,” JJ tilts his head in realisation. “That. Yeah. Kinda figured it was best. Next Thursday, I think.”

“You’re getting married next week?!”

“Nothing big,” JJ reassures him. “Just the Pogues. Maybe Sarah, if you insist. Over at the courthouse on the mainland.”

“You’re full of fucking surprises, Maybank.” John B seems struck wordless for a few seconds. Then, quieter than perhaps the boys have ever been with each other he says, “I’d be honoured to be your best man.”

“No need to go getting all choked up,” JJ accuses. Having successfully extracted himself from the deck chair, he kicks at John B’s feet. “It’s only so I don’t have you whining about it forevermore.”

“Nah, you love me,” John B asserts confidently. “You l-o-v-e me-”

“You know, I retract the appointment. Pope it is.”

“No take backsies!” John B sings. “I am the favourite!”

“Only because Pope is probably going to be maid of honour.”

“Uh-huh. You tell him that. We know the truth.”

“Fuck you.”

“Love you too, babycakes.”

*

Pope, John B and Sarah are somehow left in charge of the reception.

JJ asks how much planning can go into the reception when there is only eleven days to prepare for the same.

Maybe he was deluded in thinking so, but JJ figured there wouldn’t be too much to do for a wedding and a guest list which extended to three whole people, excluding the bride and groom. Apparently he was very, very wrong.

“There’s the bachelorette,” Sarah informs him gravely. She has a planner which says to do before I do on the front in gold embellishment. JJ wonders whether she’d already had it in her possession before the announcement. She’s dragged Kiara off to go wedding dress shopping on the mainland, both coming back looking exhausted. Apparently there had been some standoff about new versus secondhand.

“There’s the wedding breakfast and the transport and the bouquet and the corsage and buttonholes. What are your favourite flowers?”

“Daisies,” JJ responds automatically. “No. Sunflower.”

“Sunflowers? Through a buttonhole?” Sarah glares. “In what universe is that going to work?”

“Sarah,” JJ looks up from the creeper board where he’s attempting to roll back under the Mercedes he’s working on. Everytime he disappears under the car Sarah pulls him back out by his leg. He keeps seeking rescue from Morgan, but the older man keeps waving cheerfully whenever JJ looks over. “Does it matter?”

“Does it matter?” Sarah inhales in a gust. “Tell me this - does your marriage to Kie matter? Does a lifelong legal commitment to the woman you love matter? Yes? Well, then it definitely does matter.” The woman glares at JJ until he rolls his eyes in acquiescence. “Now - your suit. John B and Pope’s suits.”

“We all have suits already.”

“When was the last time you wore them?”

“...Graduation?” Sarah stares at him again. “Pope probably has a newer one,” he attempts half-heartedly.

“So we need to go suit shopping. I would suggest a tux but. Not really your vibe.” Sarah flips to a page in her planner and starts scribbling furiously. “Transport?”

“The ferry?”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“No, probably just the ferry. Less moral debt.”

Sarah kicks at his shins with her open toed sandals and doesn’t even blink at the impact. JJ pushes off and rolls successfully back unchallenged under the Mercedes.

“I’ll send you a list,” Sarah tells his feet. “And Pope and John B too, for backup.”

“You do you.”

“This is gonna be the best really fucking weirdly small wedding ever,” Sarah hisses ferociously. “I promise you that.”

*

They have to have a joint bachelor and bachelorette party because as Sarah oh so ceremoniously points out, they have mostly shared friends and not enough to split down the middle and ensure a good enough attendance at either. When JJ points out that technically they are eloping and therefore no one outside of the Pogues will be told about the wedding nevermind a bachelorette party, Sarah sulks for an hour.

Eventually, they settle on a pasta making course followed by wine tasting. JJ wrinkles his nose but Kiara swats at his upper arm and pulls at his shoulder so he spins to face the wall and hide his expression.

“Sounds amazing, Sar.” Kiara enthuses. “Thank you.”

It’s passable - Pope is meticulous yet bad at rolling out the pasta. JJ drops his sheet twice, but squishes it back through the pasta making machine with determination and only a little floor lint.

Pope is audacious in spitting the wine out into the provided bowl in order to make full use of his palette, as the wine sommelier encourages. Everyone else gulps it down - even Sarah, who has been taught to savour fine wines.

There’s a bottle of champagne that JJ shakes up, popping the cork and watching as it arcs towards the ceiling. The sommelier looks on in abject horror as JJ sprays his accumulated friends - especially Kie, who tips her head backs so her hair trails towards the floor and tries to capture droplets in her mouth.

JJ finds the cork and tucks it into his back pocket to join the one he has from Paris.

They end up at the Chateau because it is still the most logical place to go. Collapse into fancy chairs on the recently refurbished porch, which now holds woven yard furniture with matching cushions alongside the half-broken deckchairs. There is still a customary hammock strung between the trees, but they’re quickly chased under cover from the skeeters.

John B brings out several joints and reveals a fully stocked beer fridge so they don’t have to make the ten yard perilous journey to the kitchen. The refurbishment of the Chateau is a slow, long process. John B keeps muttering about extending or adding an extra floor onto the sea shack he’s always called home.

“I’ve had my best times here,” JJ tells them all, because the air is mellow and so are his friends - spread out, limbs overlapping, hands around shoulders or in hair or on knees.

“Aw,” John B smiles from where he’s lied down on the floor, claiming the chair was too bouncy. “Baby.”

“I can’t believe we’ve got a family wedding,” Pope stares up at the roof of the porch. He has Kiara’s feet in his lap and half a still smouldering joint in his hand which JJ normally would lecture him about, but instead JJ lets it go.

“Best times here?” Kiara challenges, because she’s mostly drunk and a little high and that combination makes his girlfriend (fiance)’s mind work a mile a minute. “Not, say, a mile from here in a king size bed-”

“No incest tonight!” Pope proclaims. “I will not have it.”

“It’s not incest-” Sarah defends.

“We are all kind of siblings and I know you’re dating and I think you should get married, I am not denying that - but it’s kind of Games of Thronesy-”

“Oh my God, this is so why you’re not making a speech,” Sarah mutters.

“I am so happy for you,” Pope concludes. “Game of Thrones or not, I stan.”

“Reason 420 Pope doesn’t smoke,” JJ exhales.

“Ayy,” Kiara shoots him a finger gun.

“Fuck,” John B sighs. “Marriage.”

JJ opens his eyes to peer at Sarah’s reaction. She’s curled in one of the rattan chairs, a bottle of beer in one hand, surveying the group with an inscrutable look.

Her gaze softens as she considers her boyfriend stretched out on the floor. She looks at his feet, his knees, his shoulders, his face. They both share a smile so intimate and small that JJ looks away. Finds Kiara already looking at him, one eyebrow quirked upwards. JJ rolls his eyes at her. Kiara beams.

“I’d marry you all,” Pope sighs dreamily. “Fuck Game of Thrones.”

Kiara coughs around a laugh and vaguely pats at Pope’s knees with her foot.

*

The night before his wedding, it’s demanded that JJ has to be in bed by eleven latest so he can look photo ready or some shit. Sarah’s booked Kiara into a ridiculous hotel around the corner from the venue and left John B with a strict itinerary for the morning’s events. Then given a back up to Pope, because apparently he’s the responsible one.

The three boys spend the evening surfing at Rixton’s, drinking a very limited number of beers, and then dragging out a grill from the shed. They resort to setting various things alight to see what burns best, but John B draws the line as Pope traipses excitedly out of the Chateau with one of John B’s old converse. JJ’s pillow smells of smoke when he finally stumbles to bed at midnight. Kiara's sent him a picture of her reclining on a king size bed with a green face mask smeared on her face. So many times during the evening JJ's gone to refer to her or deflect a joke or share a look or a touch to the shoulder or knee.

Her nose is wrinkled in the selfie, her hair splayed around her head. He swipes on the picture and loses himself for a moment in their shared media. Countless meme’s and unattractive selfies; too many of Beezelbub’s turds to be considered normal. Foods and pictures of dogs. Years and years of shared history and memories and ties and emotions.

JJ clicks his phone to silent mode and tries to tempt sleep. After an hour of searching an empty bed for something, he pads into John B’s room.

He knows his friend is awake because his breathing is too light. He turns towards JJ - JJ can see the dim outline of his chin.

“Can’t sleep?” John B guesses.

“Want a beer?”

“Get in.”

“I said beer.”

“JJ,” John B yawns. “Get in.”

John B’s limbs are too long and his skin is too coarse when JJ accidentally brushes against him. They don’t touch - not purposefully, anyway. But the fact that the mattress dips now and there’s another body in the bed - JJ can feel his eyelids getting heavier.

“It’s fucking insane you’re getting married,” John B mutters.

“Tell me about it.”

“So marriage is this thing that men and women do when they really love each other-”

“Why are we even friends?” JJ ponders.

“Because you love me.”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

“You nervous?”

JJ feels like someone’s taken a blunt knife to his nerves and hacked haphazardly at them. “Nah.”

“Any doubts?”

“Never.” The answer’s quick, truthful and potentially undignified. But this is his best friend who turns his head towards him in the darkness.

“You deserve this, J,” John B mumbles around another yawn.

JJ hesitates. Tucks the covers under his chin. Thinks of the selfie Kiara sent him and the fact that she’ll be walking down an aisle towards him of her own volition and suggestion. “Damn right I do.”

*

Somehow, the three boys sleep through six separate alarms and end up running late. The bathroom door doesn’t shut even as they shower - one takes the sink for brushing their teeth or shaving, or for John B to poof his hair to the perfect height and texture with three separate hair products.

Finally, eventually, they are across the bridge from Kildare and well on their way.

“I still don’t understand why you won’t just come in the Tesla,” Pope calls.

John B and JJ make a slow procession on their bikes. JJ’s exchanged the streamers on his handlebars to match the floral bow tie around his throat, and the back panel of his waistcoat. It’s an unreasonably warm day - their jackets are stuffed in the bike’s baskets, their sleeves rolled up to their elbows.

The toe of JJ’s dress shoe scuffs along the ground as he mistimes his rotation.

“I have aircon,” Pope tries again. He sits determinedly behind them, cruising with his window down and a look of mild but steadily increasing panic.

“I’m not turning up to my wedding in a Tesla,” JJ scoffs. “I have a reputation to uphold-”

“Oh damn,” John B says before he overbalances and topples towards the asphalt. JJ’s bike screeches to a halt as he pulls hard on the brake. Both JJ and Pope sit and watch as John B collects everything that has spilled from his baskets and throws his leg over the saddle once more.

“You have dirt on your pants,” Pope frets.

“What?” John B calls loudly. “What’s he saying?”

“Your pants are dirty,” JJ repeats dutifully.

“What?” John B yells.

“I just don’t think the cans were necessary,” Pope complains to JJ as they watch John B weaving an uncertain path across the road. “He’s not even the one getting married.”

The clattering of the tin cans tied to the back of John B’s bike, coupled with a man cruising in a Tesla, is drawing attention. John B waves merrily as they pass.

“Have you got the rings?” Pope checks with JJ. They’re moving at a slow enough pace that Pope has managed to stop, find and consult a checklist written in Sarah’s neat print, and catch up with them without losing too much ground. John B momentarily swerves in front of a car, then rights his path.

“Isn’t that the best man’s job?”

“It says here - in red and underlined - that John B is not to be trusted with the carrying of the rings, as he has already lost them twice. Now, I haven’t seen the rings. So you must have them.”

“I also have not seen the rings.”

The look Pope throws JJ’s way is one of abject horror. He slams his foot on the brake and all three miles per hour of the Tesla’s progress is halted.

“You haven’t got the rings?” Pope stares at him wildly.

“I have not. Hang on.” JJ stands on his pedals and zips the ten yards to where John B is bumping with grim determination over a storm drain, his knuckles white on the handlebars. “JB!” JJ yells as he gets closer. Over the cacophony from the cans, his voice is lost. Finally, considering they are both going under walking speed, JJ reaches over and pulls on the brake of John B’s bike.

The bike jerks to a stop and almost overbalances, but JJ holds the handlebars upright.

“Sorry - did you say something?”

“Pope wants to know if you have the rings.”

“Of course I do.”

Pope, who’s caught up with the pair and has half his body contorted out the window demands, “where are they then?”

John B pats down the lining of his waistcoat. Checks his pants pockets. Dismounts his bike with a flourish and says knowingly, “I remember something about saddlebags.”

“I can’t believe you copied my bike,” JJ complains.

“I couldn’t overlook the extra utility,” John B defends, as he unzips and pulls out various bandaids and bandanas from said bags.

JJ is not one for panic, but watching his best man growing quieter and his searching growing more frantic does not soothe any pre-wedding jitters.

“Houston,” John B says quietly.

“Jesus fucking Christ, JB. You had one job.”

“I think they’re in the cutlery drawer,” John B frets. “Or next to the sink, actually.” At JJ’s look, he mutters, “I was cleaning them.”

At the best of times, Pope takes a minimum of four attempts to reverse into a parking lot space. JJ politely averts his gaze as he attempts a three point turn on a narrow residential street.

“By the time we get there, you’ll be back,” JJ rationalises. “Besides, it’s not like Kie is going to be on time anyway.”

Pope is halfway through his eighth attempt at a bout turn when John B shouts in victory. “Got them! Found them! All three! They were in my front basket, so I could keep an eye on them.”

It takes another five minutes for Pope’s Tesla to face the right way again. When it does, Pope’s worry has been replaced by the face of a man attempting to keep a lid on matters.

“Wait,” Pope notices suddenly. “Do you not have a box?”

“Don’t think so,” John B confirms cheerfully.

“They were just… Loose? In your basket? The basket with holes in the bottom which small thin items may be able to fall through?” At John B’s silence, Pope turns on JJ. “How much did you pay for those rings, JJ?”

“Not much.”

“Do you even know?”

JJ squints a little. Pope’s ears turn redder.

“I don’t even know why there are three,” JJ points out eventually.

Pope debates something internally for a long moment. Checks his watch and sighs. “We haven’t got much time,” he flaps. “John B - give me the rings, then pick up the pace. Not enough that you get sweaty, but faster than walking. A dewy glow sort of pace. Or you could all get inside this air conditioned car and we’ll be there in seconds.”

“I just want JJ to savour the moment,” John B defends as he wheels his bike towards Pope’s car. The basket lightly clips the wing mirror. JJ sees Pope’s eyes close briefly. “This is his wedding day, Pope.”

“I know! And the focal point of this day is the whole getting married part - which isn’t going to happen if we don’t get there!” Pope takes the rings carefully from John B’s outstretched hands. Frowns down at them. “Is this-”

“Yeah,” JJ cuts him off. “It is. Now, let’s get this show on the road.”

Their allocated courthouse ceremony room is decked with a number of chairs, the back of which JJ can see as they approach. John B and Pope, expecting the venue to be empty besides the officiate and maybe some other official, are jostling at each other’s shoulders, Pope trying to wrestle John B’s dress shirt down to his wrist and laughing about it.

It’s Pope who pulls up short first, squints and says, “mom?” in disbelief.

Yvonne is wearing a peach hat the size of a small flying saucer. The ripple effect is immediate - every person in the room turns to look at the doors.

Even though he arranged the invitations, there is still a surprising amount of people in the room. Heyward, with a large rolled up umbrella in one hand which he casts aside as JJ approaches. JJ holds out his hand to shake the man’s hand, but Heyward knocks it aside and pulls him into a hug. When they part, JJ thinks he sees a certain glassiness to his foster father’s eyes.

“JJ,” Yvonne presses him into a hug, smelling of her best perfume. “You look wonderful. Very handsome.”

“Well, someone has to upstage the bride,” JJ smirks lightly. He looks to the left to Heyward, the question in his eyes and on his lips. “Luke?”

Slowly, Heyward shakes his head. “I’m sorry, son.” There’s a gentle touch to his elbow by Yvonne. Pope and John B, having briefly circulated the room, have returned to flank JJ’s shoulders.

His chin dips to touch his chest. His eyes close for the briefest of seconds. “It’s cool,” JJ decides, and he raises his head and looks right at Heyward. “I’ve got my family here, right?”

Heyward turns away and coughs lightly, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze. “Damn right, kid.”

Pope has his phone in one hand. “Kie cried off all her mascara when her mom and dad turned up, so they’re running a little late.” Then, as Pope considers his parents, "why have you got an umbrella?"

“Going to rain, apparently," Yvonne rolls her eyes. "Here, boys,” she adds as she roots around in her matching peach handbag. “I have something for you.”

Which is how they end up sharing a flask of peach schnapps. Even Pope’s shoulders are unclenching. He has his jacket on and buttoned, and has bullied John B into putting his on. John B refuses to button his.

JJ refuses the jacket entirely. Refuses to roll his sleeves down. His hair is in disarray from where his hands keep messing with it for something to do.

There are even kids from the Cut. Some of Kiara’s aunts and uncles. He recognises some cousin’s he’s met over the years. Morgan and his wife. Leo and Olivia. At the end of the aisle, Jack and Hannah from Cornwall. Their British accents are jarring; Hannah dives to pull JJ into a hug, pinches at his shoulder and enthuses over it all.

Cora looks uncomfortable in her pale blue dress and keeps plucking at the hem. JJ smirks at her. “Nice dress.”

The girl glares balefully back. “You look like dad did when he went to terrify the Judge.”

It takes JJ a moment to translate. “Testify at Court?” he questions Yvonne, who tilts her head in agreement. “Thanks. I think.”

Cora peers closer at his outfit of choice. “Why is it flowery? That’s girly.”

“I like flowers,” Opal confirms. “I think you look pretty.”

“Why thank you, Opal. I’m glad someone does.”

JJ thinks he hears Cora mutter suckup as the doors at the back of the room slide shut. Someone in a black robe swishes into position at the front of the room. John B places one hand on his shoulder. JJ’s heart kicks into overdrive and his palms immediately become clammy.

“Show time, baby,” John B whispers.

“What if she doesn’t turn up?”

“Bro,” John B nudges his shoulder against JJ’s and gives him a look. Then, as the pair turn and make their way to the front of the room to where JJ is to be joined in legal matrimony to his dearly beloved, “what the fuck?”

There, in a black robe and looking perhaps more smug than the situation warrants and with what JJ assumes is a transcript of his wedding vows in his hands, is Pope.

“You’re not the only one who can do surprises,” Pope preens.

“I’m surprised you haven’t broken out in hives over keeping a secret," JJ complains.

The smug look falls slightly. “They’re on my back, actually. Really gross.”

“Hang on,” JJ realises. “This means I can officially state I’ve been married by the Pope.”

“A Pope,” Pope corrects. “Not the Pope.”

“You’re the Pope of Kildare.”

Pope makes a noise in his throat. “I’ll permit it. In my capacity as Officiant.”

“Is this all kosher?” John B queries. “Don’t get me wrong, I am loving this vibe, but I’m not sure I can sit through two ceremonies.”

“It’s legit,” Pope assures him. “I’ve got a certificate and everything.”

“Where from?”

Pope clears his throat a little and squints at the vow book as he admits quietly, “Open Ministry dot com.”

“I’m just going to blank this exchange from my memory and assume Kie and I will be legally married at some point today without me having to do anything,” JJ interrupts. “I need that married person’s tax break.”

Both John B and Pope stare at him.

“You know about tax breaks?” Pope breaths in wonder.

The opening bars of To Build a Home by Cinematic Orchestra begin to play. There’s a ripple around the room and the rustling of clothes as people stand. JJ resists the urge to follow everyone else and turn towards the door as they open. There are a few muttered gasps and murmurs.

After a few painful seconds of bouncing on his heels in anticipation, JJ decides to hell with tradition and looks over his shoulder.

Sarah is the first one down the aisle. The sunshine yellow of her dress matches John B’s bowtie. She carries a small colourful bouquet, golden sunflowers and orange roses and white daisies all bound with brown twine. There’s a flower crown on her head, trailing down her hair.

It takes her all too long to reach the altar. John B is staring like a Labrador looks at a particularly juicy treat, but with a little more adoration thrown in.

JJ hisses, "simp."

Sarah who is just about within earshot gives JJ a significant look. "Wait until you see Kie," she mutters quietly. "Then we'll see who's a simp. Also," her voice rises slightly in incredulity. She draws to a stop at the designated spot and hands John B her bouquet. "She said no to the horse drawn carriage. Said the horse looked sad. I checked that shit out on TripAdvisor - it could not have been more ethical. I had to go it alone and let me just say I can see why we all moved to the motorised version of horse power."

There's movement at the top of the aisle once more, and the whole room swivels.

This moment is something JJ Maybank dare not even let himself dream of. He's an avid extrapolater of scenarios and likely outcomes but his thinking never once led him conclusively here.

The dress is ivory with a lace intricate overlay. The front view is excellent - low cut in a classy way. Kiara's hair is half pinned up with a flower crown which matches Sarah's but looks so, so much better.

There's no veil or a train, but there is a shark's tooth necklace around her neck as she gets closer, hidden under the necklace with shells. There's the gold bangle from Athens around her upper arm. Every step she takes reveals the white lace converses on her feet.

Kiara's looking around the room at the congregated crowd with a dumbfounded look. She laughs when she sees Hannah and Jack. Halfway down the aisle, she focuses on JJ.

Being the centre of attention like this is not something he's comfortable with. But he can cope with staring with a distinctly John B expression on his face and watch his soon to be wife march her way down the aisle towards him.

"Simp," Sarah hisses.

Once she reaches the front, Kiara Carrera bops him on the shoulder with her bouquet.

"Asshole!" she declares, but her eyes are bright.

The congregation laughs. JJ thinks he hears Anna Carrera groan in disbelief. A flower breaks free from its stem and flutters to the floor. Sarah steps forward to snatch the bouquet from Kiara's hands.

"Sad horse?" JJ queries. His cheeks hurt from the smile that threatens to make his eyes water.

"So sad," Kiara confirms.

"You scrub up okay."

The responding grin is disarming. "As do you. But you," she turns on Pope, "don't think we won't be having words."

Pope clears his throats and rubs one cheek. "Speaking of words," he begins in a voice which makes JJ wonder how much practice for the role he's managed to cram into a week and a half. "Let us begin."

It goes perhaps as smoothly as expected. John B mimes having forgotten the rings but the ruse becomes less amusing and more frantic as he fails to locate them in his pockets. Pope eventually pulls them from one of the inner pockets of his elaborate cloak robe combination. He hands JJ's ring to Kiara and Kiara's to JJ.

Kiara turns over the ring in her hand. "Is this…?"

"Greece, yeah," JJ confirms as they both consider the ring. "And this one…" He uncurls his palm to reveal the ring he's worn around his neck or on his hands since he stole it from his dad's bedside table aged five. The white gold wedding band that is the dearest thing JJ's ever possessed.

It's been reshaped slightly into the subtle shape of a wave. The same wave JJ has on his forearm in black ink.

It looks good on Kiara Carrera's ring finger above the white gold turtle ring that JJ gave her a week ago as a joke and she stubbornly insists is the perfect engagement ring.

There's a cheer and clapping as they kiss. JJ tucks his chin into Kiara's neck, forehead to her ear.

"Make it stop," he groans.

"You invited them, dumbass." It's fond; as is the way she jerks her shoulder to dislodge him. "C'mon, husband. I believe we have partying to do."

There's an onslaught of confetti which greets them as they exit. Kiara sighs as it blurs their vision and mutters, "I hope this shit is biodegradable," as it pours down onto them, settling in their hair, on their clothes.

JJ sticks his tongue out. "Well, it tastes like it'll degrade."

At the bottom of the steps to the courthouse entrance waits an extremely familiar sight. JJ's faithful bike, but the motorised version.

Kiara laughs in delight and drops JJ's hand to run down the remaining steps. Runs a hand over the cracked seat.

"Mom is gonna kill me," she says in delight.

"I am not," the woman in question defends as she descends down the steps. "I was the one who persuaded your father to bring it over."

Anna's hand ghosts over JJ's back, squeeze his shoulder. She sniffs loudly, the tears which started around the moment her daughter commenced walking down the aisle gradually receding.

"I believe the plan is Rixton's, is it not?" Mike puts an arm around his wife's waist.

Anna and Sarah help arrange Kiara's dress so it doesn't get tangled around the back wheel. John B hastily attempts to attach streamers to the handlebars to accompany the tin cans trailing behind the bike.

They're the quickest on the bike. Weaving across the bridge to Kildare, his wife's arms wrapped around his waist. It gives them ten whole minutes alone; for JJ to scoop Kiara off the bike and try not to let his arms shake as he carries her down the dunes. Dumps her in the sand - Kiara swears in protest and kicks out as his legs to make him collapse next to her on the ground.

"My wife's a self defense badass," JJ mumbles, once he's rearranged himself so Kiara's head's on his chest. Then, smaller, "we didn't have to get married, you know."

"You're having regrets less than an hour after the ceremony? Harsh, JJ-"

"Shut up," JJ flicks sand at her ankles with his toe. "You know what I mean. America is like way behind on most things but you don't have to be married or Bible thumpers to foster these days. They even let single people do it now."

"How progressive," her voice is dry. Then, quieter, "I know. But is there anything wrong with wanting to have this? Feel like a proper family and all that shit?"

"God you have so many emotions-"

"I'm totally disinterested in a life without you in it."

"Well, shit. That's embarrassing."

"Yeah, love you too." Kiara sits up, pressing a kiss to JJ's cheeks on the way up. "Looks like the troops have arrived."

People appear over the dunes in two's and three's. Women hold their heels in their hands and the bottom of their dresses out their sand. Pope's robe slash cloak billows behind as he and John B emerge with kegs on their shoulders and the sun behind them. In one hand, Pope clutches Beezlebub's leash. He drops it as the dog notices her owners and she runs, doggie-tux being splattered with sand as she bounds towards them.

Yvonne comes armed with a camp chair which she installs Heyward in, bribing him to stay seated by constantly replenishing his beer.

Music plays through a tinny speaker. There's laughter and beer in red solo cups and people paddling and shrieking in the sea. JJ picks up Cora and threatens to dump her in the sea - very nearly accidentally drops her. The girl laugh-shrieks and clings to his shoulders. The briny air is alive with laughter and chatter.

JJ thinks the second splatter of water down the back of his neck is just John B splashing him with beer or seawater again. The fourth one is definitely not coincidence - JJ squints at the sky accusingly, just in time for a raindrop to splash into his eye.

In true Kildare style; it doesn't just rain, it pours. The skies open, lashing and making divots in the sand. Jackets open and are hastily placed over heads. John B places his over the keg as Sarah stands by and watches.

The bottom of Kiara's dress drags in the wet sand. JJ throws his waistcoat around her shoulders and buttons it up.

"You know, I could reconsider my previous stance on chivalry," Kiara says thoughtfully. "IT’S nice to be pandered to."

"Don't get used to it. It's only because your dress has gone see through and your nipples are showing."

"But your nipples are alright to be flaunted?"

"These are socially acceptable nipples," JJ tells her primly. Rain drips down his nose and eyelashes.

"Your dad says we can go to the Wreck," Sarah announces grandly as she jogs across the shifting sands.

The wedding party is a cheerful but soggy procession across town. JJ and Kiara hold hands most of the way. Locals come out of shops and wave or holler; some applaud or shout, "way to go Maybank! Carrera!"

Mike Carrera has shut the Wreck for the day and they get unlimited food, unlimited alcohol, and free rein on the karaoke machine.

It's maybe like he planned it, because there's bunting and white themed decorations and Kiara's favourite carrot and walnut cake on a stand. A whole buffet of their favourite foods. Kegs of the fancy craft beer Kiara prefers and all the tables pushed to one side to make a dance floor. JJ catches Anna’s eye as they walk in, his hand on Kiara’s lower back, and raises a pointed eyebrow. Anna smiles innocently back.

There are string lights twined around the beams of the wraparound terrace. They cast a soft glow and attract the skeeters in the post rain musk that's settled across the island.

There’s music still blaring from inside. Cora and Opal were taken home hours ago to a pre-arranged sitter and the drinking had really stepped up since then. Mike was behind the counter pouring shots left, right and centre - John B swears he saw him pouring tequila directly into Yvonne’s mouth, but those claims are unsubstantiated.

Anna has cried on JJ’s shoulder no less than three times. Has hugged and patted his hair more than strictly necessary.

Kiara's sitting on the porch railings, her head tilted back. JJ winds his arms around her waist and presses a kiss to her bare shoulder.

"It's where it all started, this parking lot," Kiara tells him. Her hair's ringleted in the rain and her makeup has mostly gone - from sweating whilst dancing, from the sea air and the rain. The bottom of her dress is browned with sand and frayed at the ends.

"Oh yeah? Where you finally persuaded me to follow you around the world?" He knocks his forehead against her chin. "Sarah called it. Maybe I am a simp."

"Second grade it was," Kiara stares at the parking lot. The only area illuminated is the dumpsters. "You were on this bike - without training wheels - and you were freewheeling towards the road and my dad was saying God, that Maybank kid is gonna wind up dead - and I thought you looked the coolest, wildest little shit. Then I got to know you."

"I'm still the coolest, wildest little shit you know."

"And now our finances are legally joined forevermore."

"Until divorce do we part."

The door opens briefly and a chorus of laughter and music reaches them. JJ and Kiara both glance through the glass panelled door. Just in time to see Yvonne sashaying under a limbo pole, a full drink in one hand. The assembled crowd hollers as she makes it in one graceful movement.

John B falls over backwards on his attempt. JJ sees Sarah’s shoulders rising and falling in a sigh.

“Thank you, for this,” Kiara says into the darkness. “I know you’re weirdly allergic to shit like this.”

“Anything for my best girl,” he teases.

Kiara looks over her shoulder at that. JJ tries to remember how to breathe.

The night ends as it started: Kiara and JJ in a hammock outside the Chateau.

His wife's ankle is hooked over his, her palm flat on his knee. She's humming some nonsensical tune and trying to make him guess what song she's butchering.

"Ends of the Earth by Lord Huron," she says in exasperation. "Our first dance song from literally a couple of hours ago?"

"Ancient history," JJ dismisses. All he remembers is trying not to fall over his own feet and resisting the urge to simply stand and watch his girlfriend (wife) staring at him with what he thinks was adoration, her arms looped around his neck.

“Our playlist - I played it everyday in South America.” Kiara rolls her shoulders to look directly at him. They do this now - talk about South America and his spiral and communication and all that apparently healthy shit.

“Oh yeah?”

“There’s this theory that when you make things you put a little bit of your soul in them.”

“You’re saying my soul’s in that playlist?” JJ considers. “I suppose Pussy is God is on there-”

“I was thinking more of this.” Kiara spins the wedding band around her ring finger.

“We can change it-”

“No. It’s perfect.” Kiara takes a breath; not a full inhale, but the one she does when she’s tired or high or drunk, or all three. “Just maybe your mom and dad were there today, but like their good bits and their happiness and their hope.”

“Fuck, let’s hope this one doesn’t end the same way as theirs.”

Kiara’s hand moves on his knee. Her words are ferocious. “Definitely won’t. You won’t let it.”

JJ’s hand takes Kiara’s and he touches a forefinger to the ring. The one he’s not been without for as long as he can remember. The one that’s indented his pinkie. Has always sat on his skin. “It looks better on you.”

Kiara smiles, but her eyes look misted. She sniffs shallowly. “Fucking simp.”

*

JJ gets a call one Tuesday morning from Pope who tells him he should get down to the hospital, and quickly. JJ's standing in the middle of Morgan's shop when he answers.

“Is it Kie?” JJ asks urgently.

“No.” Pope seems to hold his breath for a beat. “It’s Luke.”

The proceeding twenty four hours are the worst thing JJ has ever experienced in his admittedly comparatively short life. The morphine drips slowly into Luke's arm through the see through tube and his breath rattles with each inhale in a way that JJ knows is going to haunt his dreams. JJ mostly slumps in the uncomfortable plastic chair at Luke's bedside; his dad's barely awake and certainly not lucid. At 2am Luke's breathing hitches, deepens then lightens. JJ looks over with a short, snatched look. Clicks his phone off.

Luke's tongue touches his bottom lip and his eyes open blearily. His pupils are pinpricks; it takes a whole thirty seconds for them to appraise the situation and settle on JJ next to him. Luke's mouth opens and closes slowly; his voice rasps and dies in his throat. JJ holds the cup of water with the sippy straw and watches his father taking slow sips. A droplet of water trickles down Luke’s chin from the corner of his mouth. JJ raises his thumb instinctively to wipe it - his dad moves impossibly fast, considering his condition; catches his wrist.

It's also instinctive for JJ to pause and stop completely. For his breathing to become shallower and his body smaller. JJ knows he's looking at his dad but he's disassociated to the point that he doesn't even realise his dad is speaking.

"Forgive me," his dad says.

They both have blue eyes and draw their hands across their mouths when they're angry and across their eyes when they're tired. They're about the same height with the same stance and the same Cut-roughened edges. They both love Georgia Maybank more than perhaps she ever deserved or warranted. Georgia did not just leave her child and her home, but her husband too.

"Jonathan," his dad says again. And now it's his father's thumb, sweeping across the back of JJ's knuckles. JJ stares at it. At the silvery white scars that intercept the grooves of his knuckles. At the dirt under his nails which has never disappeared, no matter how many times he soaked them in white spirit.

Engine oil reminds him of his dad. Sitting in a fishing boat with a hand on a pole reminds him of his dad. His boots remind him of his dad. The day he came in from school and the boots lay on the table, heel to heel. Toe to toe. The best present he's ever had.

The smell of whiskey and Coors, soured and acrid with each exhale, reminds him of his dad. The taste of blood and an aching in his stomach. Pain when he bends his fingers or twists on his knee the wrong way. The deep set visceral fear which should be at odds to the instinctive nature of familial ties.

JJ has seen the white striped scars on his father's back and the circular ones on his forearms. He has seen the fear that flashes in Luke's eyes at raised voices. He has seen the reflexive movements; the defensive stance so easily assumed.

"Forgive me," his father says. It's weak. Plaintive. His dad's looking at him and gripping his hand. JJ can feel every bone under the papery skin. "Jonathan. Please." His voice cracks on the words. Fades to a stop. JJ holds his father's hand and sweeps his thumb over his knuckles. Bows his head so he doesn’t have to see the reaction.

"I don't think I can."

JJ Maybank flinches at doors slamming and anyone who moves too quickly unexpectedly. Luke Maybank barely flinches as he stares at his son.

His father's hand is still in his. "I love you, Jonathan."

"I know." JJ can bring his father's hand to his face because he does not fear this version of him. He cannot, when Luke is as pale as the crisp hospital linen. When he shakes with every exhale and trembles with every movement.

There's resignation on Luke's face. There is no surprise. His chin jerks downwards in some semblance of a nod, and then he closes his eyes, as though the plug on his energy reserves has finally been pulled.

There's another influx of morphine at 3:54am. The nurse informs JJ before that it is unlikely Luke will have any consciousness from hereon in. His father is asleep, or in some facade of it. His lips are slightly parted; slightly cracked. Each breath drags reluctantly into ragged lungs.

The cold plastic of the chair digs in JJ's side. He still holds Luke's hand. Doesn't drop it even as he shifts positions all evening. The sun slowly rises across the horizon and leaks under the filmy blinds. A nurse comes in, all bustle. Gifts him with a sympathetic look.

JJ doesn't loosen his grip.

He texts Kiara at 4:30am. His wife is at the room’s door within five minutes. There are dark shadows under her eyes and her hair’s all flat at the back from the waiting room wall. She waits until JJ gestures her in.

“You okay?”

“I need to take a leak,” JJ mutters. “Can you hold his hand?”

Kiara doesn’t hesitate. She swaps positions with JJ without question, her small hand clutching Luke’s unresponsive one. It’s a dichotomy to see the pair in such close quarters when JJ has kept these elements of his life so separate.

It’s the most stressful pee he’s ever undertaken. JJ hurriedly washes his hands and rushes back down the empty hallway to the room. Pauses outside. Kiara’s holding Luke’s hand with both of hers, her lips moving rapidly. Her shoulders are loose, so JJ assumes it’s not a curse or vitriol.

He opens the door and hears, “I promise you, he is loved.”

Kiara falls silent as he enters. JJ takes his father’s hand and Kiara passes a hand over his hair and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“See you soon,” she says. “I’ll be right outside.”

She leaves because this is something strictly between JJ and his father. Something which has always been strictly between JJ and his father.

The sun bathes the room in a warm orange glow. If he breathes in deep enough, the air may smell of saline solution and therefore slightly of the sea. The hospital slowly awakens around them. There is life in the corridor and somewhere nearby, a newborn will be placed in its mother’s arms. Someone will have a tumour removed and someone's chemotherapy will extend their lifespan so they can meet their grandchildren. All as JJ Maybank holds his father's hand to his face; as he rests the wedding band on his father's ring finger (the band that matches the one which has now taken residence on JJ’s wife’s ring finger) above his top lip and closes his eyes and listens. Luke Maybank takes one last rattling breath and fades out of life more loved than he entered it.

There’s silence in the room without the wheezing breaths. JJ looks at his father’s face very intently. The pores and the broken capillaries around his nose. The smattering of stubble across his chin and cheeks which has been there ever since Luke Maybank lost the only person who he ever kept himself clean shaven for.

It’s a mouth that has twisted and spat the worst insults and formed JJ’s deep seated insecurities. It’s lips that have been split - by Luke’s own father; by Luke’s own mother. Later, in bar brawls and by his own hand on the mouth of bottles or off the edges of doors. Once or twice by JJ’s doing.

This is not an incomprehensible situation. Life has been leeching out of Luke Maybank from the day of the diagnosis. As soon as the impending mortality crept in, so did the vulnerability and the fear. He looks no more alive in death than he did moments earlier.

JJ sits there in quiet contemplation until the room fades from the orange of the rising sun to a golden glow of mid morning sun. Then he whispers, "I love you, you bastard." Presses the buzzer for a nurse and waits, his father's hand still in his, his gaze focused on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this the fastest update ever for this so called fic?? perhaps. will i now disappear into the void and re-emerge around easter? also likely
> 
> many thanks and my third-born to mia who beta-ed this, and also annie who is the BEST cheerleader in the world


	8. seven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry carissa

The Phantom is the obvious choice. Obviously not the original Phantom - that one's firmly embedded in the bottom of the sea. Sometimes JJ gets the urge to hire diving equipment and to try and find it but that's mostly one of those idle thoughts, quickly dismissed. 

This is the second Phantom. The one JJ bought to replace the first. The barely used, basically as new Phantom. The fully refurbished freshly painted smooth running Phantom. the Phantom which looks like it's sat in the same shed as the other one did, untouched. 

John B, Pope and Kiara help hoist it into the water. John B looks vaguely spooked to be face to face with his rescue turned downfall, but JJ sees him running a hand over the bow when he thinks no one can see. 

The boat dips a little too violently given the circumstances as she enters the marsh water. JJ feels his breath hitch, but then she rights herself, the deck steadying. 

Kiara passes him the faded navy backpack. 

"We could still come," Pope offers quietly. 

JJ shades his eyes from the sun. Looks at his wife and his best friends standing on the jetty. "Nah," he dismisses. "It's cool."

Kiara has the half grimace mostly attempt at a reassuring smile on her face. "Don't be late back," she warns. "It's lasagne tonight."

It's an effort, but he cracks a smile. "Make sure the pasta's cooked this time."

"Asshole."

“She could do with a wash.” John B’s tone is critical. He surveys the Phantom, squinting at the dust coated paintwork. 

JJ considers his friends. "Any last words?"

There's a silence. John B looks at his feet. Eventually Pope ventures, "goodbye asshole?"

Kiara looks away to hide a laugh. JJ doesn't. 

"What he said," John B confirms.

Kiara’s still wearing the semi-smile. "Thirded." 

JJ says, “fuck you all,” but it’s mostly affectionate. He shifts the backpack on his shoulder and salutes again in what he assumes is a mostly ironic way. “See you on the flip side, motherfuckers.”

The engine rumbles to life with a faint whine. The tiller is heavy but eases with gentle coaxing. Beezlebub sits on the bow of the vessel with the ridiculous yellow life preserver Kiara always insists she wears. 

He’s been warned not to go too far out. But it takes twenty minutes for the marsh water to give way into the sea, and he keeps going for an hour past that. Accelerates the Phantom until the engine screams once in protest. Until the land is a thin strip on the horizon and all that surrounds them is water and memories.

JJ decelerates until they’re bobbing gently in the water. Then he cuts the engine and waits, his hand still on the tiller.

Because it’s his dad’s boat, it only takes two minutes to find some alcohol. The can of Bud is covered in a film of dust, like everything else on the boat. JJ cracks the seal and takes a gulp. It’s lukewarm and syrupy from where it’s been abandoned, but it goes some way to provide a form of Dutch courage.

He’s sipping the beer and wandering around the limited control room when he spies the familiar cover of Surfing World. Specifically, the issue in which JJ and Kiara feature on page fourteen for some wetsuit advert. JJ’s heart clenches as his fingers graze the glossy cover and then slowly loosen it from where it’s been tucked between the window and the panel. 

Without prompting, the magazine falls open at the page with the advertisement. The full page immortalisation of JJ and Kiara, in all their gloss printed glory. JJ had sent the copy home on a whim. Had never expected Luke to actually turn to the page in question, much less do so regularly enough that the spine is cracked to pinpoint the spot.

JJ draws a hand across his mouth and tries to feel anything but weariness. His shoulders are tense. His teeth ache from being gritted together. 

The urn is the budget one. There’s already a dent in the side where he accidentally dropped it on the kitchen floor. 

He still maintains that it wasn’t his fault. Beezlebub had been partaking in one of her favourite hobbies - namely, lying down wherever is the least convenient for all the other users of the house. JJ, too focussed on the fact that he was carrying what remained of his father in a metal casket, tripped over the dog’s outstretched paws. 

Kiara had come in to find him scooping grey ash back into the metal container. She’d appraised the scene wordlessly.

“I mean,” she started, “we do have Ward.”

Ward the roomba (so named because he sucked) was only permitted because JJ had an addiction to the video of several kittens sitting on a roomba. He’s now waiting for the ideal time to introduce some roomba riding kittens to their household. 

“We can’t roomba him,” he snapped. He swiped a cupped hand across the grey substance, ushering them back into the urn. It was gritty as it scraped across his skin and against the floorboards. Some larger pieces which threw him off.

After a few more failed scooping attempts and some minor soul searching, the roomba had rattled as it passed over the demolition site. Kiara squeezed JJ’s hand in hers at the noise. It took a full twenty minutes for the machine to make a slow loop of the room. Once finished, Kiara picked Ward up from the floor and cradled it under one arm. Patted the top affectionately.

“Figures that your dad finds a way to be messy even after he’s dead,” she commented as she made her way to put Ward into his charging station.

It’s all he can think about now, as he pulls the urn out of his backpack. As he hooks his elbows over the side and pulls off the lid. There’s a little less of Luke in the receptacle than there had been three days prior, but JJ figures he probably wouldn’t mind sticking around and haunting JJ from beyond the grave. Probably revel in the idea. 

It ends how he always thought it would. A ghost, the devil, and the deep blue sea. 

There’s the lightest of sea breezes as JJ takes a breath and upends the metal container. What looks like fine grey dust immediately flies out, some sticking to the damp sides of the boat. JJ reaches out further, shaking his arms to ensure everything’s out. The urn clatters to the floor of the boat. JJ stares at the writing that the sea spray has revealed.

 _Georgia_. 

There’s something in seeing his dad’s ashes stuck to the italicised, immortalised name of his absconded mom. The fact that his dad kept the magazine and named this second chance boat after his once-wife. The fact that JJ forewent a funeral in favour of this: sprinkling his dad over the side of an empty boat. 

The skin across his knuckles turns white as he grips the railings. Beezlebub’s joined him, her side pressed against his legs, the life preserver between them. 

“Goodbye, asshole.” JJ raises his can to the sea and the sky. “See you on the flip side, motherfucker. I hope you packed your sunscreen.”

*

“Stop being weird.”

JJ tries to stop where he’s compulsively tapping against the counter with his foot. “I’m not being weird.”

“You’re all… jumpy.”

“Yeah, well, sue me for not having great experiences with DCS.”

Kiara pauses from where she’s pulling laundry out the machine. She talks about him being weird as though she’s not the one who’s done three entire loads. Like the laundry’s some sort of metaphor that DCS will look down upon. 

The look on Kiara’s face is one JJ’s familiar with. 

“They’re just checking we don’t keep bleach labelled as juice or have detailed plans for kid stew or something.” It’s an attempt at deflection, which is always appreciated.

JJ hums in consideration. “Your dad has been looking for ways to save money at the Wreck-”

“Don’t ruin my vegan indoctrination-”

“We all saw you eating that leftover steak the other day-”

Kiara sniffs primly. “I mistook it for quorn.”

“It was basically raw, babe. Like it had just walked through a warm kitchen. Still mooing.”

“That’s absolute bullshit-”

“Ay,” JJ knocks his heel against the counter in recognition. “Moo-ve over, John Moo-laney.”

The smile is fleeting. Kiara looks at the jersey she has in her hands for lack of anything else to do. “We can rearrange. If now’s not the right time-”

“Why wouldn’t it be the right time?”

“Your dad just died-”

“I thought you’d be relieved about that. Shouting from the rooftops. Partying, maybe. A big ass pinata with his face on. Perhaps a dartboard or two.”

“I’m not gonna celebrate your dad dying-”

“Why not? It’s not like you liked the guy.”

The jersey gets dropped into the waiting laundry basket. Kiara’s hands find her hips and she’s actually fired up now - mouth all twisted into a scowl, eyes narrowed. “I didn’t like the guy, but I didn’t want him to die.”

“Uh-huh.”

The doorbell is shrill. Beezlebub starts barking from upstairs and then clambers down them in a series of thuds. She barks once at the door, then darts into the kitchen to appraise the situation and ascertain why everyone is not responding.

Kiara and JJ are locked in a wide eyed stare. 

“Fuck,” Kiara breaths. 

“Worst they can say is no,” JJ reassures her.

“That’s still pretty fucking bad. I’ve never failed a test in my life.” JJ’s jumped from the counter and come to flank Kiara’s shoulder. She grabs his hand and grips it in what is seemingly supposed to be a reassuring manner, but is so tight that he makes a mental note to check for indents in his bones when he’s finally released. “I’m not about to start failing now. We’ve got this.”

JJ looks at his wife. At the hair falling from the braids she’s put in to try and make herself more responsible. At the neatly pressed linen pants and blouse picked specifically for this occasion. At the determined look on her face.

“Sure,” he agrees. “Remind me - are we going for the obviously super creepy approach, or the subtle creep?”

Kiara shoots him a flat look. “Fuck you.”

“Maybe after this little visit. I don’t think we’d get brownie points for during.” He pauses, considers. “Although maybe for interpersonal relations or something.”

Kiara’s reached the door. Automatically, JJ has his hand hooked in Beezlebub’s collar. He locks eyes with his wife and sees her shoulders rising and falling in a deep breath.

“Break a leg,” he says, just to ease the moment. Kiara flips him the bird. 

The door opens. Beezelbub’s tail catches him behind his knee with each wag.

“Hi! Mr and Mrs Maybank?”

It’s the first time in his life DCS have ever come into his home by invitation. He steps back to let them in, dragging Beezlebub subtly with him. 

*

“Parents.”

They’d gotten the results from the report approximately twenty minutes ago. JJ had faceplanted into the couch and was yet to emerge for air. Unprompted, Kiara climbed onto his legs, then somehow managed to wedge herself lengthways between the back of the couch and his side. Her fingers card through his hair almost absentmindedly. 

“They were coming here to assess us to be foster carers, yeah. Kinda the whole point.” Kiara tugs lightly on one of the longer strands of his hair. JJ turns his face from the cushion so he can squint up at her through one eye. 

“Is it me or does it seem like super fast though?”

Kiara looks considering. “They kinda wanna move the girls now Heyward’s been in hospital and all. Minimal disruption. All that.”

JJ turns back into the cushion and exhales deeply. “I’m not ready to be a dad.”

The petting remains steady. Then Kiara takes a lock of hair and tugs on it until JJ relents and looks at her. “We don’t have to be. We can say no now, if you want. We’re only gonna do this if you’re sure.”

There’s no hesitation. “No, I’m sure.”

“You sure?”

“I’m selling seashells, I’m so shore.”

“Nice.” There’s a pause. Then, with a smirk, “daddy.”

JJ sits up in outrage, dislodging Kiara’s hand. “You take that back.”

“Nope.”

“I can’t believe you’d ruin a moment as pure as this like that-”

“Daddy, daddy, daddy-” Kiara cuts out with a shriek as JJ lunges across the couch towards her. “No - don’t-”

It ends up with his knees either side of her hips, her grin wide as the Cheshire Cat. She’s looking up at him, chin tipped in challenge. 

JJ smooths a stray lock of hair behind her ear and kisses her forehead. The tip of her nose. Her chin. 

It doesn’t stop her. “We’ve babysat them loads of times. I’ve been a girl. You’ve been around them. I can cook, you can clean.”

She’s looking so earnest and stubborn that JJ can’t help but grin at her. “C’mere,” he leans down. 

Kiara’s legs wrap around his waist and she sighs morosely as his lips find her neck. “Goodbye, sofa sex.”

“Goodbye sex.”

“But really,” Kiara takes his chin in one cupped palm and makes him meet her gaze. She’s all solemn and serious and earnest. “How hard can it be?”

JJ tries to swallow or breath or do something other than stare pitifully. “I’ll show you something hard.”

*

As it turns out, it’s pretty fucking hard.

The first few weeks are a dream. They paint their rooms (Cora chooses a dark blue and Opal chooses a neon orange which makes JJ squint when he enters. It’s also going to take several coats to return it to the original off-white colour when they leave, but JJ takes that on the chin) and bake cookies and go to school on time. JJ drives them in his truck because his hours fit easier around school drop off and pick-ups than Kiara’s do. Opal say goodbye to him, then goodbye to Beezlebub and then skips off across the yard towards a group of friends. Cora gets dropped off at middle school and drags her bag from the seat without a backward glance.

The girls eat everything they’re given, even the hidden vegetables. They don’t get any calls from school. Sure, Cora needs to be told to go to bed more than twice, or she takes inordinately long showers and half floods the bathroom. And sure, Opal likes to help herself to snacks and leave the packets on the side in positions where Beezlebub can just reach up and pluck them off the counter, but after a few times, it mostly stops. 

JJ gloats to Pope how easy it is. Pope laughs a little and says it must be the honeymoon stage. JJ tells him very seriously that no, they’re just really good kids, and they’ve got it lucky. 

Which is the same day JJ returns to some scene out of a disaster movie.

Kiara is standing in the kitchen with what looks like a flour bomb surrounding her. She’s got an arm around Opal and is pushing Cora away by her shoulder. Both of the girls are crying. Kiara looks like she’s not far behind. 

Keeping hold of Bee’s leash, JJ lets the door shut to announce his presence. All three spin to look at the newcomer. 

Cora takes advantage of the momentary lapse of concentration and lunges towards her sister. “You ruin everything!” she accuses.

“Cora!” Kiara snaps. “No!” 

In a moment of divine strength, Cora wrenches herself from Kiara’s grasp. Instead of lunging again, she runs from the room with a watery scowl on her face. Her footsteps retreat up the stairs, a foot slamming on each step. 

Opal sobs loudly. Kiara says, “it’s okay honey, shh, shh,” and shoots JJ a look. Mouths _what the fuck_ over Opal’s shoulder. 

“Everything okay?” JJ asks cautiously, eyeing the flour splattered floor. 

“We’re cool,” Kiara shakes her head rapidly over Opal’s head. The girl has banded her arms around Kiara’s waist and is sobbing into her shirt. Kiara pats her hair. 

“I’ll go talk to Cora.”

Man and dog take the stairs two at a time. JJ takes care to knock on the door and wait for an answer because privacy is something Cora may not have been afforded. There’s a derisive _what_ from inside, which he takes as enough assent to enter.

Cora is sitting in the corner of the room, her knees drawn up to her chest. Twice since she moved in, JJ’s peered around the door to check her at night and found her sleeping on the floor, her covers bunched up under her head. Like she has an aversion to the bed or something. 

JJ had an idea that fostering might be more wholesome and not continuously break his heart. But here he is.

Beezlebub slides to the floor by his feet when he sits on the bed. Kiara’s read too many parenting books out loud for him not to know that in these situations, he’s supposed to let the child make the first move. It doesn’t make the reality less overwhelming - he entertains himself by stroking Beezlebub with his toe. 

The sniffling grows less. 

Cora demands, “what do you want?”

“You kinda caused a scene down there. Came to see how you are.”

“I’m _fine._ ”

“Sure.” It’s a fight not to add anything more; his eyebrows crush together with the effort of holding back some pithy response. 

“You can go now.”

“Did you have a flour fight or something?”

“No!” Cora lifts her head from her knees and looks at him in outrage. “Opal threw it. I told her not to.”

Cora’s face is red and blotched, tears staining her cheeks. Her lower lip trembles. She sniffs loudly and swipes at her eyes with her hand. 

“You can throw flour,” JJ starts hesitantly. “It will just vacuum up. Maybe don’t throw it like all the time but it’s not a big deal.”

The foot flies quicker than JJ thought possible - Cora’s leg lashes out, connecting with the post of the bed. There’s a thud at the contact and Beezlebub jerks to look at her. The girl scowls deeper. “I told her not to - I told her. She never listens. She’s so stupid-”

“Hey,” JJ chides gently.

“She is!” The leg gets brought back to chest so she can rest her chin on her knees. “I always tell her to not be so stupid because otherwise we’ll go away-”

“Go away? Go away where?”

Cora presses her lips together and looks away. She wipes her face with her sleeve and then starts chewing on the ends of it. Her eyes have gone all distant, her gaze on the wall opposite.

It’s something JJ wishes he perhaps doesn’t recognise but unfortunately does. 

He says, “we don’t care about some spilt flour. It’s all okay. You just cool down here and come out when you want.”

There’s no response from Cora, who still has her sleeve in her mouth and her gaze on the wall. Instead, JJ whistles his dog to heel and leaves the door slightly ajar. 

He meets Kiara in the kitchen. She’s carefully sweeping the flour into a neat pile, stopping every couple of brushes to peer through into the living room. Opal is sat on the couch in a nest of cushions, sucking her thumb, staring intently at the TV.

“Moana,” Kiara explains. “I thought she’d be too old for it - but.” The brush gets leant against the counter as JJ opens his arms. She rests her cheek against his side. “Fuck me, I need a drink.”

He squints at the clock. “Only four more hours before bedtime.”

Kiara groans. “Shitting hell.”

“What even happened?”

“I couldn’t tell you.” Kiara pulls back and picks up the broom once more. There’s flour dusting her hair which he probably shouldn’t find endearing in that moment. “I turned around and when I looked back there was flour everywhere and Cora looked like she was auditioning for WWE or something.”

“Nice. Maybe she could join the wrestling team.”

Kiara’s gaze is unimpressed. “She was really mad. Or scared. Or angry.”

“Maybe we’ve gone a little too literal with the whole white powder thing.” Unadulterated panic crosses Kiara’s face in an instant. JJ laughs. “Joking, joking. It’s fine. Everyone’s just all tense and needs to settle in.”

It’s not like the incident opened the floodgates. It’s just that slowly they become acclimatised and start pushing boundaries, like the door has been cracked open. Opal slowly refuses to eat anything remotely healthy to the extreme lengths that Kiara starts plying her with gummy vitamins and blending vegetables to mix with ketchup. Cora is surly and spiteful and can be downright mean, but is the funniest kid he’s ever met. 

JJ watches her trying to teach herself to skate on an old board he’s left outside. She picks herself up out of the dirt every single time. Even when she skins her knees and her palms. 

“Go help her,” Kiara urges when she catches sight of him half watching but pretending he isn’t. 

“She told me to fuck off.”

“She doesn’t mean it.” Kiara grins briefly at the look on his face. “Aw. Are you being bullied by an eleven year old?”

“She’s got a good backhand-”

“Go skate next to her and both act like you’re not trying to teach her.”

His nose wrinkles at the suggestion. “No thanks. I have some dignity, actually.”

The look she fixes him with is withering.

It takes all of ten minutes before he’s rooting out another board. Cora does her speciality which is watch him without trying to seem obvious about it. Especially when he cruises down the driveway almost casually. 

He slows down the beginning. From the stance on the board to pushing off from the ground. All pretense of not watching abandoned, Cora squints at his feet. Tries to mimic the action. The board skids and she trips, running a few strides before drawing herself to a halt. Her shoulders rise and fall in a frustrated huff. 

“You need to keep your feet wider,” JJ suggests. “Crouch a bit, on the knees. Like this.” Off the board and feet flat on solid earth, he demonstrates. “You need to push with your foot in long pushes, not short ones.” 

Maybe he’s just a show-off. Maybe he spent too much time outside as a youth to avoid his dad. Either way, JJ is reasonably good at sports involving a board. 

“It’s all the same balance as surfing,” he prompts. 

“I can’t surf.”

Which pulls JJ up short. “What?”

It’s a delicate balance, with Cora. Too much perceived criticism of her home life and she shuts down. She scrutinises JJ’s face closely, deciding. “Didn’t have a board.”

“Sure. We can always go, if you want to. Not much else to do around here.” He shrugs a shoulder. “We can probably find a board somewhere.”

Cora heads inside after another half an hour or so. She does end up cruising steadily on the board before she quits. It could be his imagination or the light, but there seems to be a self satisfied look on her face as she traipses through the door. 

Later on, once they’ve reminded both girls to go to bed (or at least to their bedrooms) at least ten times, Kiara looks over to JJ’s phone with interest. He tilts the screen away from her. Curiosity piqued, she places a hand on his wrist to get a closer look. Frowns as she takes in the YouTube video playing.

“You know how to skate.”

He clicks his phone to locked. “Always good to have a refresher.”

“Oh. _Oh._ Aw,” she pinches his upper arm lightly. “Baby.”

“Shut up.”

“Aw. No, it’s cute.”

Jaw locking in place, JJ resists the urge to cross his arms and pout. “Like I didn’t see you researching about dyslexia the other day-”

“It’s important for these things to be acknowledged,” she tells him loftily. 

“Whatever,” he dismisses as he gets up from the couch. “You have to hold hands when you’re learning and it’s not like she’s gonna do that, so. Drink?”

“Water, please.” Kiara chews on her lip and looks over the back of the couch as JJ pulls the water purifier from the fridge. Fills two glasses. She smiles her thanks; presses two fingers into his wrist as he passes hers over. “Maybe sleeves, or something? Or like - a strap? Would that work?”

“You’re suggesting a strap on?” Kiara swats at his shoulder in despair. JJ rolls a loose thread from a cushion between his fingers. Tugs on it. “I think as soon as I showed an interest it made it very uncool.”

“She’s got YouTube, she’ll think it’s cool again soon.” Kiara pats his hair reassuringly. “We can’t be uncool forever, right?"

*

Three separate surfboards of varying sizes turn up at Abe’s shop. 

“I thought you only had two kids,” Morgan comments as JJ tucks yet another wrapped board under his arm and tries to avoid swiping various components off the workbench. Beelzebub is still outside saying goodbye to the UPS driver; showering him in licks. 

“I don’t know what size they need.”

Morgan eyes him with a knowing expression. JJ resists the urge to flip him off. 

“It’s not like you’ll be going in the sea any time soon,” Morgan continues in the mindless way he does. “It’s November. Those kid’s’ll freeze their asses off.”

It’s not something JJ had fully considered. Sure, the sea gets a little cooler with the wind chill and lower ambient temperature. But with a wetsuit, it’s bearable.

It turns out there are a lot of things about having kids he hasn’t properly considered until they’re pointed out to him. Like he’s two steps behind the curve and trying to catch up constantly. 

He’s never even considered sea temperature. 

There’s a band in his chest that restricts him when he thinks of everything he hasn’t considered. Everything he’s neglected to take into account. 

“It’s just so their boards are all seasoned by spring,” he attempts. 

Morgan grins. “Whatever you say, kid.”

There’s a companionable silence as they both retreat to work on their respective cars. Sometimes JJ can’t believe the shop is legally his, but although he bought Morgan out three weeks after his twenty-fifth birthday, not much else has changed. Morgan stills runs it and JJ dips in and out as he pleases. Fixes up more things for minimal charge than perhaps Morgan would want - but there have been times when JJ’s come back to the shop and the car he’s been working on is further along than JJ remembers. 

“Cora’s getting into skating,” JJ starts. “But she’s never been surfing. How can you live on an island and never go surfing?”

“You’d be surprised how many people on this goddamn island can’t even swim,” Morgan says into the engine of the Impala he’s trying to coax back into life. “Can the kids swim?”

The band grows tighter around his chest. JJ hums consideringly. Beezlebub who’s wandered back in from outside brushes past his leg. “Yeah, yeah.” He knows Morgan is looking at him without having to confirm that fact. JJ focusses on his dog. 

Heyward and Morgan are cut from the same cloth because Morgan says offhandedly, “you’re going a good job with those kids,” and JJ simultaneously wants to claw his own eyes out and triple check that’s what Morgan honestly thinks. 

Instead he says, “damn right I am.” Then, after a pause. “I’m gonna hide the boards here.”

Morgan sighs. “I figured. Just add them to the damn pile with all you’re other shit.”

“You’re the best.”

The returned sigh sounds tinged with a little satisfaction. “Don’t you fucking forget it.”

(He rings Yvonne later, to double check. The girls can swim. He mentally pushes drowning further down the risk of harm list.)

*

It’s John B who first tells JJ about the skatepark over on the mainland, when JJ complains that he’s tired of seeking out empty parking lots for Cora to practice. John B tells them it’s quieter in the morning. JJ tells Cora all of this off-handedly, and then one morning she appears behind him silently whilst he’s making coffee, a helmet in one hand. 

He’s beginning to learn the subtleties of communication, so he puts the freshly brewed coffee into a thermos, texts Kiara to tell her where they’re going, and loads up the truck with elbow and knee pads, helmets and two boards. 

“I’m just really bored,” Cora tells him as they make their way across the bridge. “There’s nothing to fucking do around here.”

“Language,” JJ chides.

“Sorry. There’s fuck all to do.”

JJ coughs to cover a laugh and tries to look severe. 

“It’s the most boring place on Earth to live.”

“Sure it is.” He tries to keep the dry sarcasm out of his tone but somewhat misses the mark. 

His foster daughter slides him a look but doesn’t deign to comment further. 

It’s a solid fifty minute drive and the last ten minutes is navigated via GPS, Cora squinting at JJ’s phone’s screen and repeating the directions immediately after the robotic voice does. Not that the directions do much good; the only way JJ knows his left and rights is by making an L with the appropriate hand.

Either Cora doesn’t know hers either or she’s grown wise to this fact, because she points in the relevant directions and expresses her surprise at how _long_ a mile is. 

There’s a dirt square masquerading as the parking lot next to the ramps covered in graffiti. It’s early enough that the park for now is abandoned; the only other vehicle in the lot looks like it’s a permanent resident. 

Begrudgingly Cora straps on the helmet and elbow pads. She flat out refuses the knee pads, but JJ admits it’s a fair enough compromise from the full Kiara-ordered outfit. 

All of the parking lot practice has paid off. Cora cruises around, shifting her weight and looking proud as she starts, stops and changes direction. Occasionally she jumps off the board when she overbalances, squealing a little when she does so. JJ watches from his perch on top of one of the ramps, sipping from the thermos. The coffee is lukewarm at best.

After twenty minutes, Cora attempts one of the ramps. The board clatters to the floor, wheels still spinning. Cora pushes herself back to her feet immediately and marches after it. 

There’s a crunch of tyres of stones as another car pulls into the lot. JJ mostly watches Cora, but occasionally flicks to the newcomers. He relaxes somewhat as a father and daughter duo emerge, the daughter strapping on knee pads, elbow pads and a helmet. He’s tempted to point this out to Cora, but she’d probably retaliate with the age difference. The new girl looks a couple of years younger. 

She’s better, as well. The wheels spin effortlessly across the asphalt and she crouches, turning deftly. Her dad stands and watches. Then they make their way so they’re surrounded by ramps. The dad takes the daughter’s hand and jogs beside her, helping her balance as she attempts them. Sometimes she falls, off balance, her dad holding her upright. They laugh and go after the escaped board and start from the beginning again.

Cora crashes to the ground, faster than she’s been going all morning. One fist hits the ground in frustration. To add insult to injury, the skateboard rebounds off the ramp she had attempted and slides past her as it exits. 

It continues for a while. The other girl, aided by her dad, slowly learns how to balance on the ramps. Cora spends more time on the floor. JJ flinches at every crash, every collision, but stays steadfast at the top of the ramp, eyes sharp, waiting for any hesitation in dragging herself to her feet. 

Finally, Cora sinks to sit on her board, her eyes on the newcomer. The dad’s encouragement reaches even JJ; a little too enthusiastic for this early in the morning, but heartening all the same. 

Chin planted in her hands, Cora’s face looks glum even from the distance JJ has. It’s five minutes before JJ stands up. Cora barely looks up as he approaches even though he stamps his feet extra loudly to announce his presence. 

“The ramps look cool,” he opens with. 

There’s silence. Cora is squinting, hands balled into fists, watching the pair. 

JJ holds out his hand. There’s a long, long pause. Cora doesn’t look at him.

She takes it.

*

They get a McDonald’s breakfast on the way back. JJ tells Cora not to tell Kiara.

It is naturally the first thing she tells Opal and Kiara as she clatters through the door, helmet hooked around her wrist. Opal gasps in betrayal.

“McDonalds!” she choruses. “I want McDonalds!”

“You just had breakfast.” Kiara looks aggrieved. “I gave you extra honey in your oats-”

“McDonalds! Your oats sucked!”

Kiara and JJ exchange a look. The words of every single parenting book rings in their ears. Specifically, the many chapters about not giving in to demands and setting firm, appropriate boundaries.

They all end up in JJ’s truck and going through the drive thru anyway. 

Kiara touches JJ’s wrists to make him look at her as they wait for their meals. The girls are squabbling vaguely in the back - Cora showing Opal her war wounds, and Opal squealing in equal parts delight and disgust.

“How did it go?” Kiara keeps her voice to an undertone. 

JJ thinks of Cora’s face as she pushed herself up, over and over. The whimsical look as she considered the other girl. Her small hand in his, loose and unpromising, but firmer when she attempted the ramps. How he jogged beside her, trying not to trip over the wheels of the board, keeping up, ready to yank her up before she could hit the ground. How he could stand further and further back, until she was going halfway up the lower ramps, confidence building, brow furrowed in concentration. 

The other dad had caught his eye as JJ stood there, watching. “Makes it all worth it, right?” he’d quipped. 

“Okay,” JJ hedges with, shooting Kiara a look. “I think.”

“She seems pleased.”

“Can you tell? I can’t tell. She just looks mad all the time.”

“I think that’s just her face.” 

They both glance in the rearview mirror. Opal pokes a finger into a graze on Cora’s hand. 

Kiara sighs. “I gave you reinforced gloves.”

“Kie - I was grateful for the helmet use. Take your wins where you can get them.”

“We are at a McDonalds,” Kiara mutters darkly. “There are no winners here today.”

Cora heads straight to her bedroom when they get home, and doesn’t come out until dinner. 

*

They make the hour long trip every Saturday morning, and sometimes every Sunday. 

Cora chatters, sometimes, sings along to pieces of music on the radio she insists is tuned to some poppy station that sets JJ’s teeth on edge. All the songs sound the same; the same beat, the same chords. He takes it as a sign he’s getting irrecoverably old. 

Sometimes she’s dead silent, surly; one word answers. He can tell she tries to keep a lid on the sass and the back handed comments; remains non-responsive in their conspicuous absence. 

There seems to be a pattern, coinciding with visitation with her dad. It’s supervised contact at the moment; overseen by a support worker. Opal comes back clingier than when she left. Cora just comes back angrier. 

Stephanie, their allocated familial social worker, says that Cora has a lot of emotions and only knows how to process them as anger. It’s not much consolation when she ridicules her sister to the point of tears. When she slams doors and stamps around upstairs. When she floods the bathroom and stares right at Kiara as she tries to reprimand her. 

When it’s just the two of them, Kiara rests her head on JJ’s chest and gusts out a deep breath. Questions if they’re doing the right thing. If they can do anything more. 

They go to Yvonne’s just for some attempt at respite. Yvonne must see something in his face because she presses a hand to his elbow (ignoring his flinch) and says comfortingly, “you can only do your best.”

It still doesn’t feel enough. 

“Do you think it’s too much?” JJ asks Kiara fretfully.

In the corner of Abe’s workshop, and much to Morgan’s chagrin, sit three ramps. Properly reinforced and tested, steel framed and welded together. 

Kiara circles the ramp. Touches a finger to the smooth surface. 

“I’m no good at birthdays,” JJ mutters. “Is it enough?”

“JJ…” Kiara sounds like she has a cold or something stuck in her throat. “It’s…”

“Too much?” 

“No-”

“Pope and John B had to help with the angles and shit. Turns out you do need Trigonometry in real life. I might have to apologise to Mr Nelson for that. The first one I did was maybe advanced level. More like a really, really steep slide. Pope called it a cliff which was rude.”

“She’ll love it.”

“You think?”

“Well,” Kiara amends. “She’ll inwardly love it.” 

“I was thinking,” JJ starts. “That warehouse down by Barney’s. The abandoned one? The might be haunted one? You know - where those ghost busters apparently saw that ghost and then discovered it was just a plastic bag? Well - John B thinks we could do a skatepark in there, maybe. He’s looking into the lease, anyway.”

“You’re going to open a skatepark? Because you’ve been skating what - seven times?”

“It’s not just because of Cora,” JJ protests. “John B’s been looking for something to do. He’s thinking of inviting a parkour club as well, if it happens.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Funnily enough, that’s what Sarah said.” They both consider the ramps. “I’ll probably just put them in some parking lot for now. Pope said we can bolt them to some base for stability or something.”

“These must have taken you ages.”

JJ shrugs modestly. “Not got much else to do.”

“Morgan would probably beg to differ.”

“Well,” JJ circles his arms around his wife’s waist. “I do own the place.”

Kiara looks up from beneath her eyelashes. “And does said ownership come with any perks?”

“Unfettered access to an industrial welder and mates rates at the local junkyard?”

“What about staff access?”

“That can be arranged. Access to both staff and the staff area and perhaps even the staff’s areas.”

“You charmer.”

He can run his hands down the back of her thighs and lift his wife up to lock her knees around his hips. And so he does.

*

There’s not much in the way of hard and fast rules in the Maybank household. But meals are always to be eaten at the table.

Opal sits on her feet and talks a mile a minute whilst pushing anything resembling a vegetable around her plate. Everything is served into the middle in big bowls for everyone to help themselves. Kiara read it in some child psychology book; that the decision itself was supposed to transfer power to the child and somehow compel them to eat. 

It does not work. 

“So,” Kiara says brightly into the silence, as Opal has a stare-off with a small pile of peas. “Cora, it’s your birthday on Saturday. Is there anything you want to do?”

The girl in question looks up at the question. Shrugs a shoulder. 

“Yvonne and Heyward and Mike and Anna said they might come over,” JJ prompts, once Kiara’s aimed a kick at his ankle. “Maybe Sarah and John B, Pope and Dae, if you want.”

“Great,” Cora mutters. “All your friends on my birthday.”

They’re not supposed to rise to it. Sometimes it’s hard not to.

“We can cancel them,” Kiara reassures. “If you just want it to be us.”

Cora sighs. Pushes around a piece of tofu, which JJ relates with. Tofu is morally good but culinarily awful. 

There’s the sound of Beezlebub eating something under the table. 

Kiara says tiredly, “Opal, please don’t feed Bee your peas.”

“Don’t pee on Bee,” Opal repeats solemnly.

“No - don’t feed Bee vegetables. Some of them can hurt dogs. This is human food, not dog food.” Exasperation leaks into Kiara’s voice. 

“Hurt Bee?” Opal repeats warily. There’s a pause as she processes this information. “Is she going to die?”

“No, no,” JJ hastens to reassure her. “Just - you eat your food. Bee gets enough of her own.”

“Is she going to die?” Opal’s voice is increasingly shrill. 

“No - Opal, she’s fine. Look.” JJ ushers Beezlebub over. She’s reluctant to leave Opal’s side, the lure of some stray peas almost proving too much. But then some vague semblance of obedience wins over. JJ runs both hands over her sides and scratches her neck. “She’s okay. Opal - it’s okay.”

The tears start first, and then the snot. Kiara rubs a hand over Opal’s shoulders half heartedly.

School call her extremely sensitive and Stephanie calls her maladjusted. Neither assessment seems incorrect.

“Great job,” Cora tells the table drily. “Really good one, guys. Super parenting skills.”

“Cora,” JJ warns,

“No. You wonder why I don’t want a birthday thing. With her snotting over everything and you making her.”

“That’s enough.”

Opal’s crying reaches a crescendo. Her fist hits her plate which tips, sending a cascade of tofu and peas to the floor. Beezlebub’s nails scratch across the floor as she hastens to vacuum up. 

“No.” Cora sticks her chin in the air defiantly. “It’s my birthday and I don’t want it to be shit like every other day. I bet you’ll buy her a present to make her feel better as well. I don’t want your crap friends and your crap food and your crap version of fun-”

“Cora!” Kiara snaps. 

“What do you want?” JJ can’t stop the exasperation. “Because we keep asking you what more you want but you don’t know.”

“It sure as hell isn’t your old-ass friends and their crappy presents.”

Through her tears and hiccoughs, Opal sobs, “I dun wan her to die!” plaintively. 

Kiara and JJ share a look. With a hand on her shoulder, Kiara steers Opal up and away from the table. JJ and Cora remain in both literal and metaphorical embargo. 

It doesn’t end with much. Cora stares at JJ as she lifts a piece of potato into her mouth. Chews it vigorously. Then, without further ado, she stands up and marches away from the table.

JJ stares at the abandoned plates surrounding him. Swipes some peas off the table for Beezlebub to snack on.

*

The day before her birthday, Cora’s principal asks JJ to come and pick her up from school. He has to have a meeting in the principal’s office which makes him itch under his collar. Particularly because he’s in overalls covered in grease. Perhaps because there have been times he’s been sat in the very same office, dreading Luke’s arrival. It’s a weird mix of instinctive fear, melancholy and dread.

The principal emphasises that this is not an exclusion or a suspension but that they believe Cora would benefit from being at home for the rest of the day. 

Stephanie once told them that schools always want to seem more accommodating with foster kids in long term placements, for inclusivity reasons. JJ is just appreciative he can see it in action. 

“I’ll have a word,” JJ tells the principal once he’s pulled from the vacuum of his memories. 

“Thank you, Mr Maybank. I think she’s just outside.”

The door squeaks on its hinges as it’s opened. JJ casts them a look, and then focuses on his foster daughter. The toe of her sneaker drags across the floor. 

“C’mon. Let’s scram.”

The ride back to the shop is silent. Cora stares resolutely out the window, her shoulders tight under the fabric of her once-black but now off grey faded hoodie. She refuses to wear jackets to school despite the relentless rain and wind that Kildare is blessed with every winter. She likes to tug the hoods up and pull the sleeves over her hands. 

He cuts the engine in the parking lot. Rain patters gently against the windscreen. 

“We’re going to have to talk about what happened some time, kid,” he tells her. The only response is a half shrug. 

In a rare moment of forethought, JJ had thrown some dust sheets to conceal the ramps before he left to pick her up. As it happens, it probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because Cora follows him sulkily into the shop and doesn’t deviate far. 

“Morgan, I’ve got assistance this afternoon,” JJ calls. There’s an acknowledging mutter from somewhere. “She’ll stay out the pits.” 

“Make sure she does,” Morgan calls back. “There’s a new Yamaha that’s just come in. I think it’s Greg Randalls or something? Said he knew you.”

“Oh, Generous Greg,” JJ glances at the new arrival, already propped up on the supporting stands. 

“Generous?” Morgan’s head appears from the other side of the shop. 

“That man would skin a flea for his tan and hide.”

Morgan’s laugh is a bark. 

Cora trails behind JJ as he crosses to the boat. He runs a hand down the side of the pitted, faded hull. “What’s the diagnosis, doc?”

“Not running right or something, apparently.” Morgan’s wiping his greasy hands on the sides of his overalls. “Coffee, anyone?”

“Hot chocolate?” JJ confirms with Cora. She shrugs again, but she’s mainly focussed on the boat. 

Morgan raises an eyebrow at JJ before bustling to the paperwork filled office which contains the kettle and sink. 

“I think even school is better than this,” Cora mutters as she hangs over the side of the boat. JJ’s pulled open the engine hatch and is squinting into the depths. 

“You’re on thin ice,” he warns, but it’s half-hearted. “The least you can do is watch a boat service without complaining.” Then, after some consideration. “Come here, tiny hands. Do something useful.” 

Cora prefers her ratty old sneakers over anything Kiara and JJ buy her. They make a slapping noise as she climbs into the boat, apprehension on her face, as though expecting it to roll with a swell. 

“Turn it on,” JJ instructs. “Just there. Yeah - they key. Turn it. Try again.”

The engine protests with a whine as it’s turned over, but then it chugs into life. 

“Hear that? Something’s loose, which is making it squeal. Okay, turn it off.” JJ squints into the engine. “Now, let’s fix this mother - thing.”

They have to get past the majority of the engine in order to get to the loose belt. Cora peers as JJ works, holding anything relevant. He hands her a tool occasionally, pointing out what to loosen or tighten. They finally retrieve the serpentine belt; it’s whisper thin in some places.

“So if that had snapped - it would whip around the engine, and ruin the rest,” he explains. “Not cool if you’re in deep water.”

Her hair has been pulled back after falling into her eyes one too many times. There’s a mug of now-cold hot chocolate resting on the floor near her foot where she sits, cross legged. 

“So,” JJ starts. It’s mostly to the engine, his forearms braced against the side of the hatch. “What has Quinn Davis ever done to you?”

“Nothing.”

“So you decked her one for nothing? Absolutely nothing? Just sitting there minding her own business, was she?”

“Yup.”

“And you walked up and just took a swing?” He can sense the responding shrug rather than actively see it. “Sounds reasonable.”

“She’s a straight up bitch.”

“Why?”

Perhaps tired of being the gatekeeper for her own indiscretion, Cora huffs a sigh. “She said what’s the point of celebrating the birthday of a person who should never have been born.”

The words make him freeze. His neck and shoulders and arms all so still. “Oh.”

“She said she’d rather celebrate my death day than my birthday.”

“Cor-”

“She said she thinks my parents would celebrate my deathday rather than my birthday. Said it’s true and that’s why they got rid of me.”

JJ withdraws from the engine, sits back on his feet. Runs a grease stained hand through his hair. “That’s not true.”

The girl looks to her sneakers and pulls at a thread. “It’s mostly true. They did get rid of me.”

“They didn’t want to get rid of you. Your dad made some choices and it means that at the moment, he’s unable to care for you and Opal.”

Cora’s chin sets. “I can look after us.”

“You’re a kid. You shouldn’t have to look after you.” There’s a pause in which JJ can hear Cora’s ragged exhalation. She’s ducked her head downwards, her lace tangled between her fingers. “You’re right, though. Quinn Davis is a straight up bitch. Maybe even a straight up fucking bitch.”

The smile is small and forced. Cora keeps staring at her shoes. JJ looks away as she wipes her sleeve quickly over her face. 

“The thing about bitches is they’re never gonna change. And the only way you’re gonna win is by not doing what they want. So what do you think Quinn wants?”

“To be evil and a shitty person?”

“I mean - maybe. But mostly she wants to annoy you so you hit back. Which is a legit reaction, by the way. But people are going to be shitty to you all your life and unfortunately you can’t just hit them for it. What you have to do is tell your teacher and move away or just laugh at her. If you laugh at her then she’ll get really, really pissed. If you can make it so people are laughing at her instead of you, then you’ve stolen all her power.” JJ tries not to drop a wrench as he fumbles. 

“She’s still a straight up bitch.”

“Not your problem. Maybe her parents should do a better job.” 

“I’m kinda a bitch. Does that mean you’re doing a bad job?” She’s smirking a little, and she’s raised her gaze to meet his. So JJ lets it slide. 

“Probably. Now c’mon, let’s change this filter. And if you ever hit anyone again, make sure it’s off school property and not in front of any cameras.” He looks at her severely. "But don’t tell Kie I told you that.”

It’s on the ride back that Cora’s voice goes extremely small. “Are you going to stop my contact with dad?”

JJ shakes his head emphatically. “No, no. We’ll think of something, but not that. We’re not here to stop you seeing him. We’re here to look after you between seeing him.”

From the slant of her eyebrows, she’s not wholly convinced, but she drops the subject. Jumps out the car as soon as they’ve pulled up. 

It’s Kiara who calls around and cancels everyone turning up for Cora’s birthday the next day. Then she lies out the plans clearly over dinner. Even Opal appears somewhat subdued by Cora’s appeasement; JJ swears he sees her eating the smallest piece of broccoli. Although she may have mistaken it for a piece of pasta. Kiara likes to buy different coloured pasta which are apparently infused with vegetables or something.

“Do you think it’s enough?” Kiara frets as they lay in bed. “If I was turning twelve I’d be disappointed with staying at home with my sister. Feels like a cop out. Christmas is going to be a bigger deal than that.”

“Well, she should have thought about that before having a December birthday.” His thumb runs over her shoulder. “I’ll take her skating, have a Big Mac for breakfast. The Wreck for dinner. You’ve made a cake. Surely that beats a birthday with a crack addict dad?” He kisses her forehead but mistimes it in the dark and ends up kissing her eyebrow. “I’ve had both, and the non-crack birthdays definitely win. Although I wouldn’t mind experiencing a crack birthday where perhaps I’m the one on crack. That’s always a potential.”

The punch to his shoulder is weak. It’s easy to capture her wrist and kiss her fingertips. 

“You’re doing just fine, mama,” he mumbles into her skin.

There’s a faint buzz when he wakes up. Like today should be a _day_. He wanders to the kitchen and switches on the coffee machine. Beezlebub whines, following him around. He lets her out the door into the yard but she stands and stares at it until he lets her back in. Pads after him as he heads upstairs.

“Walk soon,” he promises her. She barks once, lowly. Whines again. 

There’s trepidation in his chest. He pushes on Opal’s door to find her still sound asleep, her arm draped over the side of her bed. 

Beelzebub whines at Cora’s door. JJ opens it to let her in for her customary morning greeting. Normally she jumps up at the bed and licks at Cora’s hand. Normally, Cora complains loudly about it, but curls her hand into Beezlebub’s collar to stop her from leaving.

Her bed’s empty. So’s the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom. The backyard. 

JJ takes stock of the missing backpack and pair of sneakers. Leans against the doorframe and breaths for a second or two. 

“Kie,” he says gently to his wife. She always sleeps with a frown on her face, like she’s lecturing about the environment in her sleep. “Kie. Wake up.” He prods her shoulder. She swats at his hand sleepily. “Kie. It’s Cora.”

“She can have pancakes for breakfast,” Kiara mumbles. She pulls the covers over her head. “Yes, with syrup. Even chocolate. Hell, even both. It’s her birthday. Give the girl some bacon. Fucked if I care today.”

“She’s gone, Kie.”

The cover’s are pulled back whip-fast. JJ stands back as Kiara sits bolt upright. “What?”

“She’s taken her bag.”

It takes a moment for Kiara to process this information. “Police?”

“I have an idea where she’s gone.” JJ passes Kiara his half-drunk coffee which she takes and downs unnervingly quickly. “Probably need to tell DCS. Not that they’ll get here today.”

Kiara nods jerkily. “Okay. You take your phone and let me know as soon as, okay? Otherwise we’re gonna have to call the police.”

“I know, I know.” JJ kisses her forehead now, wraps an arm briefly around her neck. “That kid’s gonna eat that monstrosity of a cake if it kills me, or so help me God.”

He takes his dog because she feels like a de-escalation device. Beezlebub rides shotgun, her nose to the window. The ride isn’t a long one; too close for comfort, perhaps. The dirt drive down to the double wide is potholed. The bottom of JJ’s truck scrapes in protest. 

Oscar is sitting on the front steps smoking something. From the smell of it, a cigarette. JJ thanks God for small mercies. His cousin’s arms are bare, a thin t-shirt not hiding the mess of skin that is his elbows. He looks at JJ with dead eyes. 

“She’s my kid,” Oscar starts. 

The band around JJ’s chest barely lets him speak. “I know. But this isn’t how you get custody.”

There’s no fight in Oscar. There never has been. His dad made sure of that, years ago. There’s just resignation and acceptance and his head bowed downwards. 

The door opens with a rattle of plywood in a PVC frame. Cora has her arms crossed across herself, her face set in determination.

“If you try and force me, I’ll sue you,” she snaps viciously. 

“If you really want your dad to get custody of you, you’ll get in the car.” It’s hard to keep his tone even. “This is not helping your dad.”

“I don’t want to live with you.”

“Maybe not but - your dad,” JJ glances at Oscar who is vague in his gaze. Keeps raising the cigarette mechanically to his lips. “He needs to get better before you can come back.”

“He’s _fine_ ,” Cora insists. “It’s not like he hits us or anything. Just because he’s not rich doesn’t mean he’s not good enough. He’s kind and he gives a shit about us and not just the money he gets paid to look after us.”

The laugh is bitter and he wishes he could stop it. “We don’t look after you for the money, Cora. Believe me.”

“It’s that or you just want to feel good about yourselves.”

“Cora,” Oscar mutters quietly. “He’s right.”

“No,” Cora protests jerkily. “We have - we have traditions. We have fun. You know my favourite colour and you’d never shout at me for punching Quinn-”

“I never shouted-” JJ protests.

“I love you,” Cora pleads brokenly. “You love me. You’re my dad. _Please_.” It’s a splintered, cut off gasp. “Dad.”

“Cora,” Oscar says. He says it as a complete sentence. Like there’s nothing else to say.

“I just wanted to - I just wanted things to be normal. I just wanted to see my dad and-” 

JJ’s not seen Cora cry. Not properly. Not like this - with tear and snot and trembling shoulders as she tries to keep it all in.

“Oscar,” he says, with realisation, as his cousin looks at his daughter in despair. “Do you know what day it is?”

“Uh - Monday?”

“The twelfth December.” At Oscar’s blank look, JJ exhales. “Cora’s birthday.”

It sits in the air, palpable in its gravity. 

“Baby-” Oscar reaches out to Cora. “Baby - I didn’t-” 

The damage is already done. The fight leaves her in one fell swoop. Cora looks at her dad for one long moment in betrayal, then disappears inside and reappears seconds later with her backpack. Stamps down the steps and past her father’s outstretched hands. 

The car shakes with the force with which she slams the door. 

Oscar says, “I wish I was fucking good enough. Her birthday? Fuck.” His head is in his hands.

“You could be,” JJ urges. “I sent you through that program-”

“This is a lot more than fuckin’ rehab, Maybank,” Oscar dismisses. “Just get in your fancy ass car and steal my kid away again.”

Protests die in his throat. Instead he actually does as he’s told for once and climbs into the truck.

“Belt,” he intones to the passenger seat’s occupant.

“I fucking hate you,” Cora snaps through tears. “You’re ruining my life.”

“I know, Cor. I know.” The air fills with the sound of Beezlebub’s panting. JJ thinks he can see Cora’s hand down the side of the seat, clutching the dog’s fur. “For now, let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you always to the ever suffering beta and cheerleader mia, and the moral support friend that is annie. you are the best.

**Author's Note:**

> HI
> 
> this is an around the world sequel but it's going to be more time jumpy and follow them both in obx
> 
> jj's voice has also turned out a lot sadder than i was anticipating so i can only apologise!!! updates will be slower because of life changes etc. but i hope you enjoy!!


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